


Losing Your 'A'

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Coming Out, Consequences, First Time, Homophobia, M/M, Male Friendship, Self-Loathing, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 119,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: To have that letter on your chest, the 'C' or the 'A' signifying Captain or Alternate, that was a big deal.  Brandon Dubinsky was proud to wear it.  He always wondered what guys around the league did to lose it.  What sort of egregious offense did they commit to get that leadership position stripped off?He never expected that he'd find out.  He especially never expected it would be because he was fucking a teammate.  His rookie, nineteen year old teammate that he was supposed to be mentoring.  That teammate.Well, maybe it wasn't his best idea.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in present tense and is basically Brandon's stream-of-consciousness, so it contains _a lot_ of swearing and casually homophobic language in reference to himself and other gay men.
> 
> In case you need a reminder of what these boys look like:
> 
> [Pierre-Luc Dubois](https://i.imgur.com/8Mz7wyi.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> [Brandon Dubinsky](https://i.imgur.com/XUw512B.jpg)

Brandon Dubinsky knows that Pierre-Luc Dubois is going to be trouble the first time he meets him.

 _Really_ meets him, that is. Sure, he catches sight of PL being drafted by the Blue Jackets on television, pulling on that jersey with a big grin on his face. Even then, despite just turning 18 years old on draft day, he looked more adult than most of the other chubby, fresh-faced boys at the draft. Brandon, drinking a beer on his couch at home, vaguely registers that he’s a handsome kid - he can think that, right, he’s 18 now - before becoming more interested in his stats, his highlights from juniors, how he might help the Jackets take it to the next level. They could use Dubois; god knows the fans deserve something good.

And sure, PL gets a sniff of training camp that first year, after going through the Jackets’ Development Camp. He’s not ready yet, though, and with 65 players at camp, PL gets lost in the shuffle and Brandon doesn’t really do more than introduce himself and say a few words. They’re on different camp teams and PL gets cut fairly quickly. He _does_ think that Dubois is much more handsome in person, but he doesn’t register how much trouble he’s gonna be in, not then.

But the next year, 2017, Brandon is recovering from off-season wrist surgery, and Torts sits him and Nick and Boone down - the captain and the alternates - and gives them a quick lay of the land in regards to camp this year. Karlsson’s been shipped to Vegas, leaving a hole in the roster, not to mention Josh Anderson’s hold out, and there’s a couple of promising young kids that he wants his vets to keep an eye on. Milano. Dalpe.

And Pierre-Luc Dubois.

Brandon finds himself next to PL on day 1, for medical and fitness assessments. He’s just completed his VO2 Max, and is standing next to a treadmill, bent over panting, absolutely drenched with sweat. “Oh yeah, it’s the worst, eh?” Brandon asks, conversationally, mostly to distract himself from the dread that his own upcoming test brings. He’s not kidding; VO2 Max really is the _fucking worst_. But he also definitely notices that Dubois is shirtless, his muscles accentuated by the shine of the sweat rolling down his back. And holy fuck, Dubi’s into it.

“Yeah,” Dubois pants his agreement, nodding, glancing up to see who’s talking. “Oh - hey, you’re - uh - Brandon - right?” he asks, each pause accentuated by a gulped breath.

“Just call me Dubi,” he grins. “What do you think, is this the year?”

“To - make it?” PL takes a deep breath, still breathing hard, but no longer sucking wind. “Fuck yeah. That’s - the plan. Maybe - end up playing together, eh?” Then Dubois flashes him this smile, and it’s as cocky as anything Brandon ever offered up - which is _plenty_ fucking cocky - but there’s this look in his eyes which is a little insecure, like he wants so badly for Brandon to like him.

Brandon decides that he likes him an awful fucking lot.

“Only if you move to wing for me,” he winks, and PL laughs, and then the med staff is descending with that fucking VO2 torture device to fit over his mouth and he doesn’t think about anything but _fuck this shit_ for the next couple minutes, anyway.

~~~~~

Dubi gets some ice time during training camp, participating in drills and skating, but when it’s time for the fun stuff, scrimmages and games and battles, he’s stuck in street clothes watching his teammates. Even in drills he felt like a mini-mite player, as if he had a giant red STOP on the back of his jersey like they do, to stop anyone from touching him. His wrist is almost there, but not quite. Not enough for contact, yet.

His gaze keeps drifting to PL. He knows Torts well enough to know that Dubois is making the team this year, for sure. Hell, Brandon trusts his own damn eyes to know that PL is making the team this year. The kid is _good._

He supposes he should feel a little threatened. Dubi’s a center and so is Luc, although he’s been playing at the wing, some. Some veterans get riled, every year at training camp, seeing these young kids come in and try to steal their jobs. Brandon remembers, being that young kid at Rangers camp, wondering whose spot he was gonna take. And all he could think about at the time was, _fuck you, old guys, I’m here now and I’m never leaving._

Now Dubi’s that old guy. It’s the circle of fucking life, really.

But he’s not ready to go, yet. There’s room enough for both of them still. Brandon’s got the ‘A’ stitched onto his sweater, Torts likes him just about as much as he likes anyone, and although they lost in the playoffs, he thought he played pretty damn well against that prick Crosby.

Speaking of Crosby, that fucking asshole doesn’t make the trip to Columbus for their preseason game, and Brandon watches from the press box as a bunch of young kids, no-namers, and some poor veteran motherfuckers like Foligno are out there on the ice. Fliggy is playing with PL, and watching him and Dubois and Sedlak out there is the only interesting thing happening. The rest of it is a snooze fest, like preseason games tend to be.

Brandon turns his phone over in his hands, restlessly. He’s just bought one of those new S8s with the beautiful big wrap around screen and the fucker is already cracked at the bottom. Every time he feels the chip in the glass he gets more and more irritated, until he swipes open his phone and sends a text before he can think too much about it. 

_why tf didnt you make the trip, asshole_

His phone doesn’t ping until the next commercial break. Of course. Sidney fucking Crosby can’t take his eyes away from hockey.

_None of the vets did. What the hell excuse was I going to give? Gotta tag along, need to fuck Dubinsky?_

“Oh, fuck you,” Brandon mutters under his breath. He doesn’t reply. His phone pings again at the next break.

_Stop jerking off enough to heal that wrist and come to Pittsburgh. We’ll fuck then._

_you wish fag_ he sends back, although he already knows he is definitely going to fuck Crosby in Pittsburgh.

 _Remember to delete this,_ comes the reply text. Jesus, as if he needed another reminder that Crosby is such a closet case.

To be fair, Brandon is, too. They all are, every gay man in the NHL. He sometimes marvels how he and Crosby got to hooking up, the flukiest, weirdest shit, like you couldn’t make it up if you tried. Three years ago, during a game, they were scrumming in the corner, and Brandon ended up on top of Sid. He gave the Penguin a cross-check, in the chest, for good measure, and suddenly Crosby’s face was right up against Brandon’s, his visor touching Dubi’s forehead.

“Fuck you,” Sid had hissed, but there was a measure of surprise at how suddenly and accidentally close they were, pressed together intimately in the corner. “Get off me,” he’d said, but the venom had left his voice, and there was this - fuck, this _thing_ that passed between the two men, this heady look, and suddenly Brandon was sure of two things: yes, he wanted to get off Crosby, to go score a goal and stick it right up his ass, but also that he wanted to get back on top of Crosby later. After the game. Without clothes. And stick something else up his ass.

And he knew Sid wanted the same thing. Just...just fucking _knew_. And he was right, they found each other in the hallways after the game, and after dancing around the subject awkwardly for a moment, neither man willing to say anything just in case they were reading the vibes wrong, fuck it, Brandon had leaned in close and asked if Sid wanted to come back to his hotel room, for a drink. They could talk, he’d said.

There hadn’t been a drink, and not a lot of talking, either, in Brandon’s hotel room that night. And then Sid’s hotel room the next time. And then...well.

The sex was great, not like Brandon was getting it from anywhere else besides his hand. What was he gonna do, go on Grindr? It would be all over local news in 24 hours the second he matched with a gay hockey fan. There were rumors, about certain guys in the NHL, but Brandon never quite knew how to ask them, and anyway, sex with another player was messy. Or maybe it was just sex with Crosby that was messy.

Sid was extremely paranoid about his activities. He insisted Brandon delete any and all texts between them, would show up at hotels wearing dark clothes and hoods, or even a balaclava if the weather was cold enough to not look bizarre. Nobody knew, not even his family, and especially not his teammates.

“I bet Fleury wouldn’t give a fuck, that guy looks kinda faggy. He’s at least bi,” Brandon had told him, once, as he was trying to find his boxers, which had been thrown off somewhere on the floor. “You should tell him. You should tell _someone,_ Jesus. You’re a goddamn ball of stress every time this happens.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Sid had snapped. “Any of the Jackets know you like dick? Or no?” At Brandon’s silence, Crosby snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

None of the Jackets had known, at the time, but that was about to change. Their very next game, they were in Pittsburgh, and Sid snuck into Brandon’s hotel room as usual. After a round of chirping about how fucking dumb his ski mask looked, Sid bent Brandon over the bed and fucked him hard (God, Brandon _loved_ taking it, because they’d quickly come to an agreement that the loser of the previous game would get to top, get to take out all his aggressions on the other man’s ass, and if Brandon was whining into the bed sheets while Crosby pounded him, that meant the Blue Jackets had fucking won and Sid could just fuck right off). Crosby was in an especially foul mood that evening, and even though their post-sex routine never involved _cuddling,_ he usually at least stuck around for awhile. Not that night. Crosby had barely tossed the condom before he was searching out his clothes, pulling them back on.

“You got a hot date, Crosby?” Brandon had asked, slithering onto the bed, feeling well-used.

“Fuck off,” he’d muttered, getting dressed again and throwing open the door.

Even through his stupid fucking balaclava, Brandon could hear the stuttered gasp. Then, from the hallway: _“Crosby?”_ Oh, fuck.

Brandon skidded in front of the door, and there, holding his ice bucket, was Nick Foligno. His eyes went from Crosby to a very-naked Brandon Dubinsky. “Well,” he’d said, quietly. “This explains a lot.”

So, he’d had to tell Fliggy. If any one teammate was going to know the big secret, Nick was really the best choice; Brandon knew he’d keep his confidence. Sid had refused to leave until he was satisfied that Nick wasn’t going to tell a soul, _not even your wife, Nick, please, my life is in your hands,_ and Nick agreed, although Brandon always kinda wished that Fliggy had at least pretended to think about it for a moment, if only to see Sidney fucking Crosby cry.

But he’s not in _love_ with Crosby. The only chemistry they have is in bed, and even if he wanted to date the guy, Sid is so far in the closet he might as well live in fucking Narnia.

Wait, was that a wardrobe, not a closet?

Whatever. Dubi’s not a big fan of books. Either way, Crosby is not dating material.

But these six Jackets / Penguins tilts - four regular season, two preseason - are the only time that Dubi is going to get to fuck something besides his hand so yeah, he’s fucking annoyed that Crosby didn’t make the trip.

Instead, he catches himself staring more and more at Dubois. He tries to tell himself that it’s because he’s bored, but he’s been hanging out a bit with the kid during camp, and - 

Dubi likes him. He’s obnoxiously handsome, but Brandon has had plenty of teammates that, yeah, maybe he jerked off to the thought of them once or twice, but it never affected how he treated them as teammates, on or off the ice. It’ll be the same for PL. The kid is just _fun,_ and nice, and he has a good head on his shoulders. He’s gonna make a hell of a Blue Jacket. Dubi’s looking forward to finally getting the chance to share the ice with him.

~~~~~

Dubi tries not to fantasize about his teammates too much, but after the preseason game he’s pent-up and frustrated and still annoyed at Sidney fucking Crosby. He declines going out afterwards with the boys and instead goes straight home. He has a beer, watches some porn, doesn’t find anything he’s really into so he closes his eyes and fantasizes while he jerks it on the couch. He thinks about a couple of the guys, wonders idly what it might be like to be in the middle of Karlsson and Wennberg, or to have Boone fuck him up against a wall, but his thoughts keep drifting back to Luc and his long fingers. He conjures back the images of the sweat dripping down PL’s back, from his VO2 Max test, and then dreams up Luc underneath him, muttering, “It’s my first time, go slow,” and he’d be so fucking hot and tight and _loud_ and then Brandon is coming into a Kleenex, harder than he has in months.

“Fuck,” he mutters, cleaning up, because that really was hot, but he knows enough that if he keeps his teammates constantly in his spank bank that would be - well, fucking weird. And Dubi isn’t going to bring anything fucking _weird_ onto the team, so tomorrow he knows he’ll just go back to porn, even though sometimes it takes him 30 minutes to find something he likes, not too muscular or twinky and nothing weird like piss, which is in a bizarrely large number of gay porn videos. Once he asked Fliggy, when they were both smashed off their gourds, if straight porn just casually had dudes pissing on women like some gay porn did, and Nick just laughed and laughed and said he needed to find a better fucking porn site.

What he really wants to find is a reason to not watch so much porn, someone special, like Nick has with his wife, but even though he was drunk, he definitely wasn’t drunk enough to say _that._

~~~~~

Brandon’s wrist is healed enough to go and play in Pittsburgh, his first game back from his injury. He has half a mind to reject Crosby tonight after that bullshit in Columbus, but really, he’s not going to miss another chance to be on top of a warm, willing body, so that notion is quickly abandoned.

He does play much harder than he normally would, in a preseason game. Not only is he thrilled to be back, on the ice instead of wearing a suit in the press box, but it’s the _Penguins,_ and they can fuck right off. Brandon is everywhere on the ice, finishing checks a little harder than most guys, spitting chirps at the Penguins and giving them little cross checks whenever he can, just on the edge of getting a penalty. He likes watching them rage, seeing them get rattled off their game, to give the Penguins rookies a taste of what they’re in store for. _Welcome to the show, dumbfucks._

They win, not only do they win but they shut the Penguins out, and Brandon is centering PL and Matt Calvert, and it’s fucking awesome. Dubois gets this beauty of a pass to Calvert who puts it home. Dubi’s always so happy when Matty scores, Calvert works so fucking hard and just doesn’t put it home most of the time, so it’s always a good day when he does. He joins the pair in their celebration circle and screams happily, and Luc is right next to him, flushed and grinning wildly as they hug. They don’t score again, but the line plays hard, and shuts down the chances against, and it just feels really good to be back.

A minute before the end of the game, when they know they’ve taken their last shift, PL nudges into him with that same wild grin. “So we did end up playing together,” he says. “Pretty fucking good, eh?”

“You moved to wing for me,” Brandon winks, and fuck, is Dubois blushing as he laughs? It’s an optical illusion, Dubi figures - Luc is light skinned, and he flushes hard when he’s exhausted. Brandon’s exhausted, too. Not too exhausted to fuck tonight, though. He leans over the bench and grins towards Crosby, who resolutely does not look his way. He knows Sid can tell, though, by the slight sneer he quickly represses, the little tick of his upper lip.

“What now, you fuckin’ fuck,” he can’t resist yelling, and then Malkin is leaning over the boards chirping about the Cup and the playoffs.

“What?! I can’t understand you, speak English,” he yells back and sits down. He understands Malkin just fine, and he can go fuck himself.

Tonight, the Jackets aren’t leaving right after the game, but staying the night in Pittsburgh. Torts would never admit to it but Brandon privately thinks he wants to hang out with Mike Sullivan, the Pens’ coach who is one of his best buds, and wants to get the NHL to pay for it. Brandon isn’t gonna bitch. Torts doesn’t impose curfews, which means that Brandon can go to Sid’s house and fuck him for as long as he’d like. Dubi much prefers fucking Sid _after_ their games, instead of before, so when the Jackets (hopefully) win, he can chirp the shit out of Crosby the whole time.

Crosby’s house is sort of bland and devoid of personality, much like him, but his bed is huge and firm, and it has this headboard that knocks pleasingly into the wall when they get going hard. _Thump thump thump_ is the sound of a good fucking, and the headboard knocks hard tonight. Because they’re not in a hotel, Brandon can be as loud as he wants, and so he is, letting a stream of filthy words and hot moans escape his lips as Sid drives him into the bed. He reminds Crosby at least four times that the only reason he’s on his knees taking it is because the Penguins got shut the fuck out.

“You talk too much,” Sid tells him when they’re done. He throws Brandon a towel, which he uses to wipe up the come on his stomach and the squishy lube between his thighs.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, jerk,” Brandon chirps back, then flops back on the pillow, trying to get his breathing back to normal. “Hey, uh...you think maybe I could fuck you, tonight, too?”

“You want to go _again?”_

Brandon shrugs, suddenly feeling a little defensive. “You’re the one that missed the first preseason game, which you won,” he says. “So you owe me a round of bottoming. And we don’t leave till tomorrow morning. And we don’t play you again till December. So yeah, I wanna make this night worth it and get up in your guts, if that’s alright with you.”

Sid makes a noise. “Such a wordsmith,” he drolls, but settles down next to Brandon. Not close enough to cuddle or any of that shit, just nearby. “Just give me a few minutes. I mean, if you think you can get it up, again.”

“Oh, be ready for it.”

“Mmmhmm.” They lay on the bed in silence for a moment. Brandon’s just looking over for his phone when Sid starts talking again. “So, I saw you got a new gay kid on the team. Is he gonna stick around, you think?”

“What?" Brandon stares at Crosby, wide-eyed. “Gay kid? Who?”

Crosby looks unimpressed. “You fucking played with him tonight, idiot. Dubois?”

 _“What?”_ Brandon sits up, scoffing. “Luc isn’t - ...wait. You really think so? How can you tell?”

“You have the worst fucking gaydar for a queer I’ve ever met, Dubinsky. He’s gay. Trust me.”

“Fuck off,” Dubi snaps automatically, and he’s unsure why he’s feeling so defensive. Maybe because he wants it to be true, so fucking bad it hurts.

“I picked you out, didn’t I? And, let’s be real, Brandon. Name me one NHL player you’d be willing to bet, eh, 10 grand on about being gay. Are there any? Besides me.”

“I’m not betting you 10-fucking-grand - “

“No, you’re not betting me _anything,_ idiot. I’m just saying, would you have the confidence to name any NHL player as gay if you had to pay 10 grand if you were wrong?”

Brandon scowls at the boring white ceiling. The answer is no, but he doesn’t really want to admit it. The silence answers for him, though.

“That’s what I thought,” Crosby says, sounding smug. “There’s at least a few guys in this league that are fucking _obvious_ and you can’t pick them out? Worst gaydar ever, I told you. Look, coming into the NHL as a teenager is a scary thing, and it’s even scarier when you’re gay on top of that. So just treat him well, okay? Make sure he’s part of the team and fitting in and making friends. Even if you don’t believe me that he’s gay, you should be doing that anyway.”

“Don’t fucking tell me how to treat _my_ rookies, Crosby,” he growls, rolling on top of Sid and pinning his shoulders to the bed. “You think that’s something I need to be told?”

Sid shrugs as best he can with Brandon’s grip on them, just a little pressure on Dubi’s hands. “You’re an asshole,” he says.

“Just to guys like you,” he replies, and leans down and bites Crosby’s lower lip, hard enough to draw a whine, and then they’re kissing like they’re fighting and murmuring insults at each other and for awhile, Brandon doesn’t think about PLD at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, literally hours after this was first posted, news broke that Dubi was sent home by the team, where he'd traveled to Vegas with them. His agent says "medical but non-injury related" and The Athletic says "the same behavior that caused his A to get stripped". So, timely fic, I suppose. In real life, he's known to be a hard partier, so rumors are that it's alcohol (or perhaps opioid addiction) with Vegas exacerbating those issues but there is nothing definitive. Dubi will go hard, and will make poor decisions with PKs (pain killers) and alcohol in this fic, but I'm not likely to make him an alcoholic or addicted to pain meds: as a result, this fic may veer significantly off from what we know "in real life" (assuming we do someday find out what the hell is going on).

That doesn’t last very long, the not-thinking-about-PLD thing. Brandon thinks about PL the entire way back to Columbus on the plane, keeps catching sight of his head a few rows up, sometimes hears a little bit of laughter or a snippet of conversation. It’s a short plane ride, from Pittsburgh to Columbus, but it feels like for-fucking-ever. He’s sitting next to Fligs, as he’s sat next to him on the plane ever since he got accidentally outed to him; just sort of started as a show of support, and here he is, still. Dubi appreciates it, even if Nick falls asleep for even the shortest hop. And he snores.

But Nick being asleep is good thing, now, because he’s fidgety and restless and he can’t stop thinking about Crosby’s words, _you got a new gay kid on the team_ , and fuck, how could he tell?

Dubi watches PL laugh with his seatmate, Sonny Milano, tries scrutinizing his behavior for any sort of queer tells. There’s nothing, but then again, Brandon doesn’t think he gives off any queer tells either, so it really doesn’t mean shit.

He wants to know so fucking bad, but there’s no good way he can think of to broach the subject. _Hey, Luc, you got a girlfriend? Hey, PL, what do you think about dick?_

Jesus Christ, Brandon is fucking pathetic, he knows. It would just be nice, he rationalizes, to have someone else on the team like him. Someone that knows what he’s going through, someone that won’t tease him about finally settling down and getting some lucky lady in the WAG club.

The plane lands, and Luc is on his feet in the aisle, stretching, Milano crowded beside him. PL looks even fucking hotter next to Sonny, and he catches Brandon looking and offers a wide, friendly grin. Dubi smiles back and quickly turns his attention to Nick just to break the eye contact which is suddenly very uncomfortable for him. “Wake your ass up, Fliggy,” he says, punching him in the shoulder. “We’re back from hell.”

Nick snorts, popping an eye open and smirks, knowingly. Normally Fliggy doesn’t say or insinuate a goddamn thing about Dubi’s preferences, which he is grateful for. But he knows about him and Crosby, obviously, and loves to offer subtle, blink-and-you-miss-it teasing about it. “M’surprised you’re not more tired,” he says, low enough that nobody else can hear. For a split second, he pops his tongue against his inside cheek, pushing it out like there’s a dick pressing against it, following it up with a wink.

“You’re the fucking worst,” he tells Fligs, matter-of-factly, and tries not to stare any more at PLD as they exit the plane.

~~~~~

Final roster cuts are made and the 2017-2018 Columbus Blue Jackets are set. Torts calls a number of them into a small meeting - him, Fliggy, Bobs, Cam, a few other guys.

“Look, boys,” he says, “I think we’re gonna have the youngest fuckin’ team in this league this year. Which is great. I’m fucking excited, and you should be, too, all these fresh legs keepin’ you on your toes. But I want you veterans to be mindful of it, alright? Set a good example for these kids. I want that same professional, winning culture that we started here last year to continue over this year. Each of you take one of these kids under your wing, alright? Even someone like Werenski, who did a fuckin’ bang-up job for us last year, we can’t forget he’s still 20, still learning this shit.”

Normally, Dubi would immediately balk, crack a joke about this whole thing. _What is this, Big Brothers club?_ Instead, he finds himself volunteering, immediately, to help mentor PLD.

“I mean, I’ll keep an eye on all the new guys, obviously,” Dubi mutters. “But we just played together in preseason and I think he’s a good kid.”

And just like that, Brandon is mentoring Dubois. Savvy’s got Werenski, and Fligs has Sedlak, Calvert has Hannikainen and Brandon doesn’t pay attention to anyone else, because he knows just what he’s gonna do with PLD on their first official mentorship outing and his mind is already wandering to it.

~~~~~

“The fuck took you so long,” Brandon asks as PL slides into the passenger seat of his SUV. They’re stopped at a gas station, and Luc is carrying a sugar free Red Bull and beef jerky. “It’s a 45 minute drive, Luc, and that’s only if traffic is shitty. You don’t need to load up like we’re going cross-country.”

“Sorry. Got stuck behind someone buying a fuckton of gift cards,” he says, cracking open his Red Bull and taking a long swig. “One of them was like, $200 to Cracker Barrel. How the hell long does it take you to spend $200 at Cracker Barrel?”

“Shit, I haven’t been to a Cracker Barrel in forever, but I remember it being cheap as hell.” Brandon pulled out into traffic, back on the road. “You buy me anything, buddy?”

“Oh. Uh…” Luc offers him the bag of beef jerky, and Brandon laughs, shakes his head.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you. Actually, give me a piece, what the hell.”

He’s munching on the beef snack - teriyaki flavor - when PL speaks up next. “So just us this weekend? This is your lake house, you said?”

“Yeah, well, Torts wants me to mentor you,” Dubi says, around the chewing. “So I figure, we have this weekend off before the season really gets rolling, and in honor of you making the team proper, we could go hang out together. It’s up at Buckeye Lake, and a lot of guys have houses up there. It’s no Muskoka, but you can’t beat the distance. Easy enough to get away for a day or two.”

“You got a boat?”

“Fuck yeah. We’re gonna drink and fish and maybe play some cards, what do you think?”

“Awesome.”

Brandon thinks maybe if he gets PL properly drunk, he’ll be able to figure out if he’s gay or not. And then there’s this small, tiny little voice, which Dubi promptly pushes away, that says if he gets PL drunk, and he _is_ gay, well, maybe…

Jesus. If he thought fucking Crosby was messy, fucking a teammate would be a disaster. But then he glances over at the passenger seat, sees PL sprawled out, all long lanky limbs and scruffy stubble, and he’s munching on his beef jerky, giving Dubi a crooked, genuine grin when he catches him looking. And he thinks maybe, just maybe, it would be okay.

Maybe.

~~~~~

It’s getting late, so they don’t go out on the boat that Friday night, just take a quick walk around the lake before Dubi preps the grill. PL starts up a fire in the little pit that Dubi built himself, because why not, all guys love fucking around with fire and Luc is no exception. They eat salmon and asparagus prepared from the grill in the large wooden chairs around the pit, and the lake is right there, shimmering in the star light, and the fire is crackling away happily, and it would be really fucking _romantic_ if they were a couple but they’re not. Unfortunately, s’mores are off the approved food list, for awhile at least, but the beer is cold, and they don’t seem to run out of things to talk about. They finish their meals and Dubi gets up to get them another drink, pulling his chair right up against PL’s when he returns.

“Don’t tell Torts I’m corrupting you,” he jokes, handing over the beer.

“Ah, like I haven’t drank before.”

“Well, yeah, but this ain’t Canada. I’m furnishing alcohol to a minor. Big no-no here.” Dubi chuckles. “What’s your tolerance, anyway; two, three beers?” He’s telling himself that he’s asking because he doesn’t want to get PL sloppy. Really, though, he’s wondering how many he needs to feed this kid before being able to ask about the gay shit.

PL offers a middle finger and a grin. “I can out drink your ass, old man.”

“Oh-ho, don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash.”

Instead of answering, PL just tips the beer towards Dubi and takes a long drink. Brandon follows suit. He’ll keep an eye on the kid, he reckons, make sure he doesn’t get so drunk that he gets stupid, but maybe just a little buzzed wouldn’t hurt.

~~~~~

PL is no Brandon Dubinsky, when it comes to alcohol, but he’s no slouch either.

“I can’t believe you’re not hammered right now,” Dubi says, accusingly, and he can hear the slight slur in his words. PL’s put down a six pack and Brandon at least twice that much, on their way to running him clean out of beer.

“Toldja I got a tolerance,” PL grins from where he’s flopped on Dubi’s couch. They’ve moved inside, now, both of them agreeing they shouldn’t be taking care of fire in their inebriated state. Plus, it got surprisingly chilly out, as the sun went down. Now, inside, it’s almost too warm. Brandon thinks about taking his shirt off. Instead, he goes and turns the heat way down, then makes his way back over to the couch.

“Guess I can’t say shit. By the time I was your age, I could out drink pretty much anyone.”

“Not much else to do in Alaska, eh?”

Dubi gives him the finger. “I said by the time I was your age, PL, I ain’t an _idiot._ I wasn’t still in Alaska going to high school at nineteen, man, give me some credit, I was learning the finer points of getting wasted in juniors, thank you very much. ...But, you’re not wrong about Alaska,” he admits. “Shit, I’ve basically been drinking as long as you’ve been alive. Jesus Christ.”

PL does the math in his head, squinting. “You were drinking at twelve?”

“Eh, fourteen. Close enough. Anyway, you’ll fit right in here, buddy. Fun but not sloppy. That’s my party motto.”

“You’re always sloppy,” PL chirps, and Dubi picks up one of the throw pillows and slings it at his face.

“Fuck you. And move over, _fuck_ ,” Dubi grumbles, nudging Luc out of the way and flopping on the couch. He tips his head back to the ceiling and closes his eyes for a moment. It’s been a fun day. They’ve had chemistry, and they’ve talked about a lot of weird shit, but still nothing about relationships. They’re both sufficiently buzzed, now, that if he’s gonna ask, this is the time to do it. But he still hasn’t thought of any sort of opening. “So, Luc, you got a girlfriend?”

Fuck, that was the worst goddamn line Dubi’s ever spit to anyone. It sort of does the trick, though. PL half sits up, regarding Brandon with a curious look. “Naw,” he says, slowly, drawing the word out. “You?”

“Huh uh,” Brandon shakes his head, and he’s aware that he’s staring now, and then, oh fuck, he recognizes that same sort of look that passed between him and Crosby all those years ago. That sort of hungry-longing-hopeful look, so he takes the chance, scoots a little closer to Luc. “I’ve never had much time for, uh, women,” he says, and he sort of meant to imply he was just _busy,_ in case PL takes it the wrong way, but he’s suddenly very aware of how obvious it sounded. PL’s eyes flare wide at that, and Brandon opens his mouth to protest, no, that’s not what he meant, just in case he’s misreading the situation, but Luc cuts him off before he can say anything.

“Yeah?” he asks, and he sounds almost as breathless as when Dubi first talked to him, back after the VO2 Max test. “No time? Girls are a lot of work, aren’t they?”

“Too much work,” Brandon agrees, and he can hear the swallow in his throat going down thick. He chances it, pretty sure he’s reading the situation correctly now, slides a hand on PL’s knee. “Don’t you think?”

PL stares at the hand on his knee, then back up to Brandon’s face, leans in even closer. “I, uh - yeah, I...I do think,” he stutters, tentatively placing his hand over Brandon’s.

Brandon never meant for it to happen. But PL’s face is so close, so fucking earnest and nervous, and he’s chewing on his lip like he chews on his mouthguard, and instead of telling Luc _it’s fine, bud, the NHL isn’t so bad for guys like us,_ instead, he’s leaning forward and pressing his mouth to PL’s, not actually saying anything at all. PL gives a soft groan into his mouth and without even breaking the kiss, he’s on top of Brandon, pressing him into the couch while they make out like, well, like teenagers. Everything’s moving fast, 0 to 60, but Dubi is a fast lane sort of guy and if PL wants to go from a first kiss to grinding into his lap within the space of a few minutes, Brandon isn’t going to protest at all. PL tastes like beer and he’s almost too aggressive, like he’s been waiting years to do this. He’s not the best kisser Brandon’s ever had but he sure is fucking enthusiastic, and Brandon finds that hotter than anything.

Brandon is hard as hell almost immediately and when he bucks his hips up, he can tell PL is, too, a telltale bulge between his thighs. He snakes a hand down between them, and Luc shudders when Dubi cups him through his pants. “Hey,” Brandon pants, licking his lips. They taste like PL, and that gives him a little thrill. “You - d’you maybe want - I can jerk you off?”

“Oh, uh…” PL looks a little unsure, so Brandon gives him another quick kiss, reassuring.

“Only if you want. I’d really like to,” and it’s probably not fair to PL, but he’s rubbing his palm in circles along the bulge and he can tell that it’s driving Luc crazy.

“You really want to?”

“Fuck yeah, I do.” Brandon really wants to do more than that, but it’s a start. If PL really is gonna regret this in the morning, just a drunk tryst that he’ll only half-remember, well, it’s easier to forget a handjob than anything else.

“Yeah - yeah, please,” PL nods, and Brandon notices for the first time that he’s flushed, that pinkish flush he gets on the bench, and _he’s_ responsible for it, Dubi is, and that makes him even fucking hornier.

Luc is wearing these ugly fucking salmon colored shorts because it’s unseasonably hot in Columbus, well, everywhere, really, it’s been in the 90s. The shorts are hideous but the button snaps off fast and the zipper comes down easily, so he doesn’t hate them anymore as they cooperate so well with his eager fingers. Brandon eases down PL’s briefs and lets him spring free, poking through the open zipper in his shorts, and fucking hell, PL is a big guy not just in height. Brandon sort of knows this already - look, it’s not like he _stares_ in the showers, but it’s impossible not to catch a glance - but here, up close and hard, he’s fucking huge.

“Look at this fucking thing,” he murmurs approvingly, curling his fingers around PL and starting to stroke, slow at first. “Goddamn, Luc, you lucky son of a bitch.”

PL huffs out a laugh, making a strangled sound as Dubi’s hand starts sliding up and down. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah. How is it, you like it?”

“Yeah,” Luc mutters again, and it seems to be the only word he’s capable of saying, right now, so Dubi kisses him again. PL licks into his mouth eagerly, and as Brandon strokes him, he occasionally freezes, like he’s too preoccupied or dumbstruck to do anything else. Then, as if his brain catches up, he starts kissing again. Pause-kiss-pause-kiss, over and over again. Then, suddenly, his breathing kicks up a notch, heavy and fast, and he’s making these little noises that Brandon is gonna probably jerk off to later. “You close?” Brandon asks, breathless himself, hand moving quickly.

“Fuck, Dubi, yeah, yeah, like that,” PL pants, his eyes dropping closed as he seems to hang on the edge for a moment before he’s coming, all over Brandon’s soft grey t-shirt. He knew he should have taken his damn shirt off, but hell, he doesn’t care, because now he knows what PL looks like and sounds like when he’s coming and he never expected that, not in a million fucking years.

“Fuck that’s good,” Brandon murmurs approvingly, and he means it, every word. Half of him doesn’t even care if he gets off, but the other half of him is aching for it. PL is coming down off his orgasm, looking shivery and boneless. His jaw hangs open and all Brandon can think about is how amazing it would feel to feed his cock into that open mouth. His hips jerk up a little at the thought, and this movement seems to jolt PL out of his dumb trance.

“Oh, hell - you need, uh - “ PL slides back on his lap so he can paw at the front of Brandon’s shorts, and as much as Dubi wants it, so fucking bad, he gently grabs PL’s wrist.

“You don’t have to,” he says, gently, although he can hear the rough edge to his voice. He offers PL a soft kiss; he wants to give this kid an out to say no, not feel obligated.

“I want to,” he says, stubbornly, echoing Brandon’s earlier words. “Please?”

Well, he’s not going to turn that down, so he releases PL’s wrist, tries not to be wiggly as Luc fights with the zipper, which gets stuck for just a moment - a short moment, but it feels like for-fucking-ever. Finally, it’s down. Brandon’s a boxers guy, and PL reaches into the slit in front, gently maneuvers Dubi free with long fingers.

He can’t help the sharp intake of breath at the first touch. It’s been forever since he’s been touched someone he actually _likes_ outside of sex, and he can feel his stomach rolling with desire and nerves. Brandon was always confident and cocky in bed with Crosby, and he realizes now it’s because he doesn’t give a shit if Sid likes him or not. He wants so bad for PL to like him, to enjoy this experience. There’s so much blood rushing to his head he wonders if he’s going to pass out.

PL is - awkward, with the handjob, too soft and slow, so Brandon puts his hand atop Luc’s and grips tighter, speeding up the strokes, just how he likes it, both their hands working together. “That’s fucking good,” he murmurs against PL’s mouth, in between little kisses. “You feel how hard I am for you?”

PL nods, and now he’s definitely blushing, and Dubi wants to see more of it, the way he ducks his head and looks upwards through his lashes. “God, you’re so fucking hot,” Brandon tells him, truthfully, but mostly it’s to see that pleased blush spread more through his cheeks.

“You too,” he mumbles.

“Look down,” Dubi encourages, because he’s getting close, trying not to squirm Luc off his lap. “Look down and watch what you do to me, PL.”

PL looks down obediently, and the sight of him staring at Brandon’s cock is such a fucking turn-on, it doesn’t take him much longer till he’s coming, more wet spots splattering on his t-shirt. Somehow, both of them managed to come solely onto Brandon’s shirt.

He _really_ should have taken it off when he had the chance.

PL rolls off Dubi’s lap, and now Brandon is nervous, just waiting for PL to come to his senses and regret what just happened. Instead, he gives a goofy, soft laugh, seemingly just as anxious that Brandon might have hated it. “You gotta change shirts. Maybe we should, uh...shower?”

“Together?” Brandon can’t believe he fucking asked that. It slips out before he can bite it back, but _fuck,_ he really doesn’t want to let PL out of his sight right now. Wants to see him naked, without those fugly salmon shorts ruining the view.

Luckily, PL grins, looking relieved. “Oh, yeah. I mean...if you want?”

Brandon does want.

The shower at the lake house is kind of small, one of those shower boxes. It’s a little bigger than a standard box shower - Brandon retrofitted the bathroom, because those standard showers barely fit his large frame - but it’s definitely not meant for two NHL sized guys to be in it. They end up crunched together against a wall, making out while the water pulls the shampoo from their hair, streaking down their naked bodies as they kiss. They stop kissing just long enough to grab the soap and lather each other down, laughing and giggling, finding each others’ ticklish and sensitive spots.

They kiss again while the water is rinsing the soap off, and Brandon can feel the suds and bubbles tickling his toes. PL shifts a little closer, moaning into his mouth; he’s hard again. Dubi suddenly remembers that Luc is _nineteen_ , barely nineteen, and he’s - fuck, he’s thirty-one, and there’s a twelve year age gap, and PL is still popping off like a teenager because he is a teenager.

He can’t bring himself to care. Not when he gets his hands on PL, jerking him off again, and Luc looks so fucking into it that he knows even if this never happens again, he’s gonna be masturbating to PL’s face for a long time. Brandon wants badly to drop to his knees and blow him, but he figures if Luc is still into this tomorrow, he’s gonna spend the rest of the weekend with nothing in his mouth but beer and PL’s dick. Maybe some food, sometimes, too. There’s not quite enough room in this shower to get on his knees anyway.

The clean up is a lot easier this time when PL comes, but he gets the same spent and shivery look afterwards as he did before, clinging to Brandon like he can’t keep himself upright. Brandon thinks it’s goddamn charming, holds Luc up and feathers kisses along his jaw for a moment. “C’mon, horndog, water’s getting cold,” he says, and Luc honks a goofy laugh.

They towel off, and Brandon examines himself in the mirror as he pees, runs a hand over his jawline with his free hand. He needs to trim his beard, especially if his face is going to be in between PL’s thighs the rest of the weekend. A small thrill of desire runs up his gut, and when he gets back to the bedroom, Luc is sprawled out on the bed.

_Dubi’s_ bed. The lake cabin has a guest room, and the sheets in there are clean and fresh, just waiting for a visitor. Brandon fully expected PL to sleep in there, but the sight of his young teammate stretched out like a cat on his sheets - 

Well, it’s not an unwelcome sight.

Still, he has to make sure. “Hey, this is _my_ bed,” he teases, padding over to the dresser and rummaging around for a clean shirt and boxers. “I know you know where the guest room is, you put your shit down in there earlier.”

“Oh.” Luc sits up in bed, small frown starting on his features. “Yeah, no problem. I can - “

“You _can_ go get your shit and bring it in here. ...if you really - “ Before Brandon can finish his sentence, PL is out of the room, and back a moment later with his duffel bag. “...want to,” Brandon finishes with a grin, tugging on an old, well-loved KC Chiefs shirt and a pair of boxers that don’t have holes in them.

“Your bed’s comfy,” PL says, as if that’s the entire explanation for why he wants to spend the night in Dubi’s bed. He finds himself his own clean shirt and briefs, plugs his phone into the charger, then steals one of Brandon’s pillows as he falls into bed. The house is cool now, it’s been ages since Brandon turned down the thermostat, and he’s snuggled in under the covers by the time Dubi clicks off the light. Moonlight filters in through the blinds as he makes his way across the room, just enough to see a lump waiting for him in bed, and for what seems like the thousandth time tonight, Brandon gets a hot curl of excitement inside. He’s never had anyone waiting for him in bed, here at his lake house.

The bed shudders a little as Dubi settles down on his pillow, then shudders again as PL scoots a little closer. Brandon does the same, inching towards Luc, and after a moment of that they’re so close that Dubi can practically feel the heat radiating off PL even though they’re not quite touching yet. Brandon leans close to offer a quick kiss, mouth pinging off PL’s jaw before finding his lips in the dark, and then they just...don’t break apart, staying curled up next to each other. Luc snuggles into his embrace with a sigh, and Dubi’s heart feels full and content for the first time since he can really remember.

Fuck, he hopes PL doesn’t regret this tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Brandon realizes that neither of them had set an alarm as he wakes up to bright sunlight streaming in the window. It’s the first time in a long time he hasn’t woken up to a beeping alarm, and it’s kind of nice. A glance at the side dresser tells him it’s a little before 9a. For hockey season, that’s late as hell.

At some point during the night, he and PL disengaged from each other. Brandon’s not surprised. He hasn’t _cuddled_ anyone in years. Now, Luc is sleeping a foot away, turned towards him. His mouth is half-open and he looks awfully young, and Brandon feels a pang of fear. He’s pretty sure this isn’t what Torts meant when he said to mentor Dubois. Suddenly, without his dick guiding his actions, he realizes what this could mean to the team, if anyone ever found out.

But it was so _nice_. And if PL wakes up, and still wants him, well, who the fuck gets to tell them that they can’t? He’s seen far worse during his time in the league, guys picking up girls that Brandon is _pretty_ sure aren’t quite 18 yet, guys fucking married women, guys fucking their teammates’ own wives and girlfriends. Brandon isn’t doing any of that shit. He’s having a consensual encounter with his own, legally-aged teammate. Still, he can’t shake this weird feeling, that something is a little off.

The weird feeling, though, blows away instantly when PL cracks open his eyes and grins, a genuinely delighted smile, when he sees Brandon. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, with a yawn.

“Morning to you, too.” Brandon stretches, leisurely, and blood starts flowing, and his dick suddenly reminds him that he’s got a willing, handsome man in his bed. “What do you wanna do today? We overslept the really good fishing. Gotta get out there early as hell for that. Still might catch a few, though, if you want.”

PL puts a tentative hand on Brandon’s bicep, offering a shy smile.

“Or, I mean...getting out of bed is overrated,” Brandon’s sure that PL’s still into it, now, and fuck fishing, all he wants to do is hear Luc make those noises again, all day long.

Brandon makes sure the blinds are closed before both men throw off their clothes. Dubi climbs on top, caging PL in with his forearms as they kiss, no less desperately than last night. PL’s just as hard as he is, their dicks rubbing together as they grind against each other. “Can I blow you?” Brandon asks, breathless.

“God, yeah,” PL responds with an eager nod. Brandon slithers down Luc’s body and - man, he’s even bigger now that it’s right in front of his face. He’s never sucked such a big dick before, but Dubi likes a challenge, always has.

PL’s breath is ragged and fast from pretty much the moment Brandon gets him in his mouth. He doesn’t buck his hips up, doesn’t yank his hair like Crosby does, just sort of lays there in a moaning, whimpering stupor, muttering soft little _yeah_ s and _oh, fuck_ s. Brandon’s even getting turned on at the wet sucking noises he’s making while taking PL down his throat, and when Luc mutters his name, it’s almost too much. He stops for a moment, pulling off and looking up.

PL is raised up on his forearms, head tipped back to the ceiling. He glances down at the sudden lack of warm mouth, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Huh?”

“Do that again.”

“Do - what?”

“Say my name,” Brandon instructs, and sucks him back down his throat.

“Fuck, oh - Dubi. _Brandon_ ,” PL whimpers, and goddamn does his name sound good in his mouth. He’s stroking everything he can’t take, which is kind of a lot, but PL doesn’t seem to mind by the sounds he’s making. “Close,” he says. “Close, Brandon, please - “

PL hits the back of his throat as he thrusts up, moaning, coming in waves. There’s so much of it; Brandon tries swallowing it all, but he can feel a drop escaping, trickling down his chin. Dubi’s pretty sure he’s going to be shooting dust by the end of the weekend, if they keep this pace up. To be young again, he thinks, wiping his mouth with a grin. PL’s just sort of staring at the ceiling, looking dumbstruck, so Dubi grabs his hand and moves it between his legs.

Luc yanks his hand back and Brandon’s suddenly nervous, because that was a very clear _no_ out of thin air, and what did he do wrong? “Uh, what…”

PL must recognize the shocked look on Brandon’s face, because he gasps. “Oh, shit, no, it’s okay. I didn’t mean - just, uh...I don’t want to give you a handjob.”

“Man, it’s okay, no pressure.” Brandon’s a little disappointed, but he’s more than happy to just blow him with no reciprocation, if that’s really what Luc wants.

“No, I don’t want to give you a _handjob_ because...because I want to give you a _blowjob_. But…” PL trails off, and it’s a long, long silence, like he’s not going to say anything else.

“But?”

“I sorta, um. Have never. Uh…”

“Oh, shit,” Brandon blurts out, and he realizes Dubois must be a complete _virgin_ , if he’s new to BJs he’s definitely never fucked before, at least not another man. Dubi suddenly feels very protective, like he has to guide this new gay boy into manhood or some shit.

Granted, he’s gonna guide him with his dick. But hey, somebody has to be the first, and Brandon is delighted to be it. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a virgin.

“First time for everything, huh?” Dubi offers his most patient, gracious smile. “Promise I’ll like it. As long as you don’t bite it off, huh?”

PL still looks a little awkward, smacking his lips together. “Okay, except. My mouth is like, super dry,” he says, “And I have to pee.”

Brandon’s dick groans in protest, but his brain is much more magnanimous. He pats Luc on the knee. “Go piss, I’ll get you a drink.”

The hobble-walk from the bedroom to the kitchen with a hard-on isn’t the most fun he’s ever had, but he stays hard thinking about watching his dick disappear inside PL’s mouth. He wonders if he should come inside his mouth, for the first time, or somewhere else - like, _oh_ , his face - the thought of Luc with Brandon’s come smeared through his beard is more than enough to keep him rock hard as he makes his way back to the bedroom with a Powerade Zero.

“So do you wanna swallow?” he asks while PL chugs the blue-colored liquid. A little bit of it dribbles down his chin and his cock twitches in interest as he stares at the blue drop, getting caught in his beard. There’s hopefully gonna be another liquid dripping out of his mouth, soon.

PL wipes his chin with the back of his hand. “Well, yeah. Spitting isn’t very polite, is it?”

“Nope, although it’s pretty hot sometimes, to come on a guy’s face.” Brandon grabs the back of PL’s neck, pulls him in for a kiss. “Maybe I’ll let you do that later. Get on my knees and you can stripe your come all over my fuckin’ face, dripping off me like a goddamn porn star.”

Luc makes a little obscene choking sound against Dubi’s mouth, and Brandon can’t resist his smug grin. “Yeah, you’ll be making more of that sound, soon.”

“Jesus,” PL says, but he sounds breathlessly excited more than anything. He offers another quick kiss and then ducks between Brandon’s legs, taking a deep breath, staring at Dubi’s dick like if he looks hard enough, he’ll figure out the best way to do this.

“Just watch your teeth, and stroke everything that’s not in your mouth, and everything else is gravy,” Brandon tells him, carding his fingers through PL’s hair. “I promise I’ll tell you when I’m close. So you can prepare for it. Okay?”

“Okay,” PL agrees, and then he’s got his mouth around the tip, no little teasing licks or kisses or tongue touches like most of the guys he’s been with. Straight to sucking. Dubi likes his style.

“That’s good,” he encourages, even though it’s a little toothy as PL slides down the shaft. But, hell, he kind of _likes it_ , the tiny little scraping pressure of teeth, not too hard, just enough to remind Brandon that they’re there. Maybe he just likes anything Luc is offering, at this point.

He has a half-hysterical thought that he can’t believe he’s on his back, in his lake house, with his cock in Pierre-Luc Dubois’ mouth, but then PL starts stroking the shaft like Brandon told him to and he forgets everything but his dick. He has enough wits to look down, wants to see Luc sucking his cock, and the sight doesn’t disappoint, watching his head bob steadily - albeit shallowly - up and down, spit dripping down the shaft. He’s got an intense look on his face, like he’s concentrating hard on the job.

“I think you can take a little more,” Brandon says roughly, and PL pulls off for a moment. Dubi thinks for a second he’s said the wrong thing, but Luc is just pulling off to take a deep breath. He goes back down so far he chokes, and then he keeps doing it, sliding Brandon down his throat until he gags, pulling up, doing it again. The noises he’s making, little chokes and sucking breaths is a huge turn on for Brandon, watching PL gag all over his dick while his hand strokes the base steadily, and he’s close.

He warns PL, like he promised. “Soon,” he mutters, hips twitching as he fights to keep from face fucking the kid. “Keep doing that.” PL does, and after a few more strokes of his hand, Dubi’s coming into his mouth with a loud, long groan. He wrenches his eyes open after a long moment, staring blearily at the ceiling before his gaze drifts down to Luc, still between his legs.

PL is a mess. His eyes are red, twin tear tracks running down his face, and there’s mucus smashed through that duster he likes to call a mustache, and yeah, there’s even some come in his beard. If Brandon were nineteen, like him, he’d be hard again in an instant, seeing what his cock did to Luc. Instead, he files it away for later, pulling PL up and mashing his mouth to against Luc’s. Dubi can taste his own come, bitter in PL’s mouth, and that makes it even hotter.

“You’re fuckin’ _awesome_ , Luc,” he says with a grin. “Lemme make you breakfast.”

~~~~~

They do go out on the boat after breakfast, drinking and catching the last bits of warm, fall sun. To anyone who might be watching, they just look like two buddies, having a few beers, floating out on Buckeye Lake. But out of sight, their feet are tangled together, toes pressing against each other intimately as they drink and laugh and give each other loaded glances between sips of beer.

“So, is anyone else in the NHL...you know, like us?” PL asks, cracking open his third beer.

Dubi looks around. The nearest boat is so far away he can’t even make out facial features of the people on board. “Gay? You can say it, Luc. Pretty sure nobody’s gonna overhear.”

“You know the government’s always listening,” Luc says, and Brandon squints for a moment, not sure if he’s serious; but then that goofy grin splits his face and he winks.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Dubi tells him, fondly. “Anyway, yeah, sure there are. I don’t really know who they are, though. There’s not a queer player’s club or nothin’. Just rumors you hear. So I don’t know anyone else for sure - oh, besides Crosby.”

“Wait, _Crosby?”_

“So damn gay, man.”

PL looks like he’s just rubbed a lamp and a genie popped out. “You are fucking with me.”

“Actually, I’ve been fucking with _him.”_

Somehow, PL’s glee doubles. Dubi wasn’t even sure that was possible. “Holy - ! No fucking...I can’t believe...you’re telling me _Sidney Crosby_ is gay _and_ you’ve fucked him?” Dubi answers with a smirk and PL’s grin isn’t stopping. “This is the coolest news I’ve ever heard. That makes me feel better about myself, you know? That Crosby of all people is gay.”

“Oh.” Shit, Dubi is gonna have to crash his party. “Yeah, about that. He’s not out. Not even to his team, so don’t think that he’s this big fag ambassador to the league and everyone’s fine with it. In fact, you wanna see a gay man who epitomizes ‘self-loathing’, well, look no further.”

Luc frowns at that, staring into his beer. “Wait, really? Why? I mean, it’s Sidney fucking Crosby. I mean, I get not being out, to the public, but - everyone knows what he’s done, everyone _respects_ him even if you’re on a rival team, right, he doesn’t have anything else to prove. That team, the Pens, they’re his, yeah? No question about it, he’s the man there, and he can’t even be out to them?”

Brandon gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve always told him he should come out to his boys. I mean, what the fuck are they gonna say, right? Who knows, maybe that big fucker Malkin is super homophobic. He’s Russian, it wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway, I guess I can’t say shit about being out to the team.”

PL is suddenly looking very somber. “So nobody else knows?”

“Fliggy knows. He, uh...he almost kind of walked in on me and Crosby, once. Sid was leaving my hotel room. It sort of doesn’t get more obvious than that. He’s kept my secret, though.”

“And besides Nick? Anyone else?”

Brandon shakes his head and takes another drink, looking anywhere but Luc’s disappointed face.

“That’s kind of depressing, Dubi,” PL says, and he’s trying to sound cheerful but failing miserably. “You’ve been with the Jackets how long, and nobody else knows?”

Brandon figures that’s a rhetorical question, so he doesn’t say anything, just takes another drink.

“I can’t believe - …” He pauses, eyes widening. “Wait, you and Crosby aren’t...dating, are you?”

“Ha!” Brandon snorts in amusement, draining off his beer and digging through the cooler for another. “Fuck no. I can’t even text him without him insisting I delete the conversation if it even contains a _hint_ that he likes dick. We just fuck, sometimes.”

“Because you have nobody else,” PL guesses, correctly, and that sort of hits Dubi in the gut.

“It’s just hard to find a guy you like, when you’re a public figure but still in the closet. So, you know...if you find somebody you like, and who likes you...hold ‘em close, man.”

PL curls his foot around Dubi’s ankle and finally smiles, shyly, and the sadness in Brandon’s stomach unfurls into a little ball of pleasure and desire. “Hold em close,” he repeats with a nod.

“You, uh...you wanna go back in, maybe? Back to the house?”

PL’s smile sharpens, a bit. “Yeah, sounds good to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dubi’s barely back inside the door when PL gets grabby, and suddenly they’re shucking off clothes and pawing at each other and kissing, right on the living room couch. Dubi gets on his knees and blows him, and he tastes like sweat and musk from being out on the boat. He brings Luc to the edge and then has him jerk off on his face, like he suggested last night; it gets in his beard, a stripe down his cheek and a little bit stuck in one eyebrow. He quirks a grin, licking his lips, asks how he looks.

Based on PL’s reaction, he looks _damn_ good. PL hauls him up for a heated kiss and then Brandon goes to wash his face while Luc finds his clothes and wanders to the kitchen to make a sandwich. When he returns, PL offers another kiss, sucking at his jaw where Dubi missed wiping a spot. He shudders at the touch, PL’s tongue swiping his own come out of Brandon’s beard, and wonders what sort of good fucking deed he did to deserve this.

They eat their sandwiches watching NHL Network and then head back to the bedroom and put on a movie, playing from the TV hanging on the wall. Brandon chooses Super Troopers, because he’s seen this movie about a million times and he really isn’t quite sure how much of it they’re actually going to watch. As it turns out, not a lot. Mostly, it’s just making out, but they end up blowing each other (he gets PL off _again,_ Dubi doesn’t remember himself being this horny at nineteen), then watching the end of the movie naked and laughing in each other’s arms.

“So what do you feel like doing tonight?” Brandon asks after the movie, kissing PL softly on his forehead, slightly sticky with sweat. He’s got Luc firmly in his arms, spooned next to him, and goddamn, this is so nice. This is what all the straight boys have, he realizes, somebody to hold and cuddle with and laugh and watch movies and get a little handsy during them. 

PL looks content as hell, too, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as Dubi continues to nuzzle his temple, affectionately. “Do we have dinner plans?”

“Yeah, I brought steak. Ribeyes and Brussels. Thinking we could grill out again.”

“Awesome. Then we can just hang out, like last night, outside by the fire pit? Talk a little?” PL grins, kissing his jawline. “I like hanging out with you, man.”

Dubi can’t help but snort. “I think you like doing more than just hanging out with me, Luc.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, we have shit to talk about, right? I wanna hear some good stories about the NHL. And some teammates. C’mon, there has to be a few good embarrassing stories. You’re supposed to be mentoring me, right?”

Brandon growls. “Oh yeah, I’m gonna mentor the shit out of you,” he says, biting at PL’s neck while the younger man twists away in shrieking laughter.

~~~~~

PL helps with cooking this time, although a solid half of the “help” is him ‘accidentally’ brushing against Dubi’s ass until Brandon tells him to knock it the fuck off, they’re in public and it’s still light out, where any of the neighbors can see them. PL looks a little chastised at that but it doesn’t keep him down for too long. He dutifully backs off and they chat about everything and nothing while the steaks cook. Where the best places are in Columbus to get a drink. Dubi’s favorite restaurants. Fun shit to do.

“So like, about two hours away, the Zoo has this satellite location I guess, in Zanesville, called The Wilds. You can go and rent a little camping hut, and you can zip line and drive around like you’re in a safari and see the animals. We should do that next spring.”

“Zanesville?” PL taps the side of his beer can, thoughtfully. “That sounds familiar.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, it’s because some crazy asshole had like a ton of monkeys and lions and tigers, and he kills himself but before he does, he releases all of them. So there’s just wild animals all over the place. It was all over the news. I think a tiger got pretty close to Columbus, but they had to shoot all of em. Can you imagine having a tiger as a pet? That shit’s crazy.”

PL scoffs. “I can’t even take care of a house cat.”

“I know, right?”

“But, anyway, The Wilds. Camping, huh?”

“Yeah, but it’s not real camping. I think the little huts have lighting and bathrooms and running water.” Dubi smirks, gets up to check on the steaks. “You know, perfect for a pretty boy like you.”

_“Pretty boy._ What the fuck.” PL grins, scoffing, then stops and regards Dubi with a smirk. “You think I’m pretty?”

Dubi groans, rolls his eyes. “Figure of speech. Don’t let it go to your head, now.”

PL is still smirking, though. “You think I’m pretty _and_ you wanna make plans to hang out with me in the spring?”

“Well…” Fuck yeah, Brandon wants to keep hanging out with him. The idea of him and PL in a little hut, two hours from anything he knows in Columbus, in the middle of nowhere, sort of takes his breath away. Instead of answering, he turns back to the grill with a small smile. “C’mon, loser, steak is ready. Come eat.”

This time, when PL comes over and brushes his ass, he doesn’t complain. It’s getting dark, anyway.

~~~~~

After dinner, they’re lounging outside by the fire pit. Luc has made a hell of a fire and they’ve both got blankets around their legs. It might only be in the upper 60s, but it feels cold, compared to the warmth of the daytime. Still, neither wants to move inside. The crackling of the wood is soothing, there’s the buzz of crickets and other bugs and it’s dark, so the stars are beautiful. The residents of Buckeye Lake try and keep their evening lights to a minimum for just this reason, and Brandon is grateful for it. He and Luc’s hands hang off the side of their chairs, brushing against each other every so often, sending a jolt up Brandon’s spine every time it happens.

Luc’s giggles are loud in the quiet evening as Dubi tells another story. “ - so Cam _loves_ spicy shit, and this girl he’s dating - they’re married now, but they were a newer couple back then - well, he’s gotta know how this prospective wifey handles the heat, right? So he makes one of his famous spicy dishes. And she just fuckin’ loves it. Eats it right up. Cam told me that’s when he really fell in love. Anyway, Cammer is a fucking idiot though.” PL is hanging on his every word, and Dubi’s enjoying it more than he should. “He cuts up the peppers for dinner with his bare hands, and these aren’t just jalapenos, we’re talking ghost pepper level shit. And yeah, he probably washes his hands but that shit don’t wash off too well. So later after dinner he’s knuckle-deep, finger banging her and he said that suddenly she gets this weird look on her face and oh yeah, he’s just blasted a bunch of spicy pepper juice up there.”

PL gasps, and both of them fall apart laughing. “Holy shit,” PL says between laughs.

“Yeah, we ain’t never let him live that down. Ruined that night’s fucking for sure. Don’t worry, I’m not an idiot like he is. I always use gloves when I make spicy food.” Dubi winks at him, and he wonders if PL can see it in the dim light.

PL goes a little quiet, suddenly, makes a little interested noise. “Oh. You mean, for when your fingers, uh…”

It’s truly dark now, so fuck it. Brandon tangles his fingers together with Luc’s, and PL grabs back, and now they’re holding hands, and it feels nice. “Yeah,” Brandon says, and his voice sounds a little huskier. “Have you ever wanted to try that?”

Brandon can hear the nervous, thick swallow even from a few feet away. “Fuck yeah,” he says, quietly, his words confident even if his tone isn’t.

“Just fingers, or…?”

“Everything.”

“Well, the biggest question of every fag’s life, PL: top, or bottom?”

There’s a soft little _mmm_ from his direction. “Am I allowed to say both?” A pause, then: “What about you?”

“Both is good, yeah.”

“What do you and, uh, Crosby do?”

Dubi snaps his head to PL, who won’t meet his gaze. “Why, you gotta get that set in your brain so you can jerk off to it later?” He’s mostly joking, but PL nervously laughs like he’s going to do just that. “Holy fuck, really?”

“No! I’m just curious.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. Just Curious. Well, to make your fantasies really realistic, we trade off. Whoever loses the previous game gets to top.”

PL finally glances his way, eyebrow raised. “Shouldn’t it be the other way? Like, whoever wins gets to top?”

“Well, first off, it’s not like bottoming makes you a bitch and topping makes you a man. You’re gay either way. But, the loser is generally annoyed and sort of wants to take control, and that works best for topping most of the time.” Dubi leans closer, smirking. “You wanna know more? I’m sure you’re not surprised but Crosby is pretty quiet during sex, hell, he’s prim and proper even in the sack, if you can rip a cry out of his mouth it’s been a good day. He likes his balls sucked, though, makes these little whimper noises when you do it.”

PL blows a long breath through his teeth. “I don’t quite know how to feel about all of that. It’s sort of weirder than I thought it would be, to hear that.”

“Well, we can stop talking about Sidney fucking Crosby anyway, because I’d rather talk more about you. _Us.”_ Dubi runs his thumb in circles along PL’s palm, feeling him shiver. “So, you think you like both, you said? Oh, that’s good, PL. The things I’m gonna fuckin’ do to you, if you let me.”

PL sucks in a breath, sounding excited. Dubi just knows he’s over there, hard in his shorts already. “What are you gonna do to me, Brandon?”

Dubi drops his voice to a low, rough whisper. It’s late and nobody’s outside anymore, but he’s not gonna risk it, and besides, he sounds sexier this way. “I’m gonna let you fuck me, first. You’ve got the biggest fucking dick I’ve ever seen and I am so excited to have it inside me. I like it hard, PL. You think you can fuck me hard? Make me scream your fucking name while you rail me?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, breathless, and oh yeah, he’s _definitely_ ready to bust out of his shorts over there.

“Yeah, I think you can,” Brandon continues, still swiping his thumb along PL’s hand. “We’re gonna break in every inch of your apartment with you inside me - “

“Oh, uh.” PL cuts him off with a sheepish smile. “I’m actually staying in Savy’s spare room.”

Brandon tips his head back and groans to the heavens. _“Rookies,”_ he sighs. “You should stay in my fuckin’ spare room instead. Actually, hell, my bedroom. In my bed.”

“Too late now. I’ll just have to come over to your place, eh?”

Dubi wants this all too bad to point out the logistics aren’t great, that David is gonna notice if PL is out all the time, because he absolutely is gonna have Luc in his bedroom every night if he can get away with it. “You’re lucky I like you,” Brandon growls. “Lucky I want that dick inside me so bad. Oh, and not just that, because when you’re ready for it, I’m gonna fuck you. I’ll be so good to you, man, get you ready with my fingers until you’re _begging_ me. Holy fuck, those long legs of yours all spread out under me, crying out my name, I bet you’re so fucking tight and hot...” Well, Brandon’s hard now, too. Achingly hard. Sort of dry mouthed with how much he wants it.

“Well, let’s not wait for your place, then,” PL says, casting off his blanket, and as much as Dubi wants to, he grabs Luc’s hip before he can get too far.

“Whoa-ho, there, buddy, it doesn’t quite work like that. Sit down.” He waits till PL sits, squirmy and fidgety, before speaking again. “Unlike what porn has shown you, we’re not chicks, you can’t just slide it right in. It requires...prep work.”

“Lube, you mean.”

“And a good shower and clean.” As much as Brandon wants this, so fucking bad, they’re both at least six deep in cheap shitty beers for the day and have drank three bottles of the good stuff on top of that. “And you’re a little buzzed, I can tell, and we should wait til you’re sober.”

“Oh, c’mon - “

“Nuh uh. Not for your first time. Not when you’re gonna be in _my_ ass. However, we can take a shower and I will introduce you to the magic of rimming. How about that?”

~~~~~

They take a shower together, again, squished into that little shower box. Dubi demonstrates the best way to clean up (hey, it’s a skill every gay man has to have, he figures) and then, when he’s satisfied with what he sees, smacks PL along the rump and orders him to dry off and get into bed, face-down-ass-up.

PL takes the order pretty literally, and when Brandon gets back to the bedroom he’s got his stomach and chest pressed to the bed but he’s half on his knees, so just his ass is jutting in the air in this obscene manner. Brandon growls, approvingly; Luc is a fast learner.

Some guys don’t really like rimming, but Brandon hopes PL isn’t one of them. Dubi likes it, both giving and receiving, it feels sort of illicit and naughty, so of course, Crosby hates it, which means he hasn’t done this in forever. He doesn’t have to worry, though. Brandon’s not even a minute in, hasn’t even progressed to anything past long, flat swipes of his tongue when he has to grab Luc’s hips, help keep him upright. By the time he gets to the part where he’s fucking PL with his tongue, Luc is making noises again, but they’re _new_ noises, they’re high-pitched and fluttery and whiny and _loud_ and he’s clutching the sheets hard enough that they untuck on one corner. Brandon decides that these are his new favorite sounds he’s ripped out of him, and wonders what he’ll sound like during sex.

There’s a small internal war going on with Brandon, that he’s opening PL up, maybe he could just go a little further and fuck him tonight. But he finds that he really, really wants PL to be clear-headed and sober the first time he gets fucked - hell, Dubi wants to be sober, too - and that’s not tonight. So, instead, he reaches around and jerks PL off while his tongue is working. PL bucks hard and shudders as he comes, and Brandon flips him over onto his back before he collapses.

“You’re gonna open up so good for me when I fuck you,” Brandon whispers against his mouth, and PL strokes him while they kiss, all heavy breathing and desperation. Dubi’s practically ready to come on his own, just from seeing that, and so it only takes a few slick touches before he’s coming on Luc’s stomach.

After a long moment, Brandon breaks off and pushes down his body. “Oh, fuck,” PL mutters as Brandon licks his stomach in long, wet swipes, erasing the mess there. “Fuck, Brandon, that’s…Jesus Christ.”

Dubi collapses next to PL when he’s done, exhausted and sort of headache-y. When was the last time he came this much? “I’ll get us a drink,” PL announces, apparently noticing Brandon’s pinched face. They both drain their sports drinks when Luc returns with them in a few quick chugs, and then PL is pulling the covers around them and snuggling up, his head on Brandon’s chest. Dubi curls his arms around Luc and makes a soft, contented hum.

“Not quite what you expected on this trip, I bet,” Brandon says, yawning.

“Exceeded my expectations, more like it,” PL grins, sleepily. “You’re the best mentor I could ask for.”

Brandon snorts, but that spike of fear is suddenly back. “You know you can’t tell anyone about this - us - right? Yeah? Like, when Savy asks where you go - ”

“I’m not that dumb, Brandon.”

“Hey, just gotta check.” Dubi kisses his temple, enjoying the feel of a warm weight on top of him, and not wanting to return to Columbus tomorrow at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Brandon wakes up first, and this time, he hasn’t rolled away from PL like the previous night. They’re still pressed up against each other. Luc is breathing right in his face, still asleep, really terrible morning breath (Dubi suddenly remembers they did not brush their teeth last night before bed) and his curled fist is sort of poking Brandon in the stomach, but he doesn’t want to move. Instead, he drags his fingers slowly down PL’s arm, tracing his tattoos, the veins visible through his light skin.

PL grunts as he gets down to his wrist, shivering and pulling his hand back. “Ticklish,” he mumbles, opening his eyes just a slit and then smiling. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is sleepy and content and affectionate and really, now Brandon knows he’s in deep with this.

“Hey,” Brandon greets in return, offering a kiss. They kiss for a moment, soft and delicate, barely brushing their mouths against each other.

PL stretches, slumps comfortably back on to Brandon with a wide yawn. “So,” he says, drawing the word out, groggily. “Do I get to fuck you today?”

Brandon laughs. “Do you think about anything else?”

“Do _you_?”

Brandon has to admit that he doesn’t have much else on his mind, lately, besides turning PL inside and out.

“Well then, I rest my case,” PL says, mouthing at Brandon’s collarbone. “And my question still stands.”

“Sure, when we get back to my place. You gonna buy me some dinner, big boy?”

PL pops an eye open at that, looking intrigued. “You wanna go out to dinner? Like at a restaurant?”

It was a joke, but Brandon is actually excited at the prospect. “Well...yeah, actually, that could be fun. But, unlike what the movies say, fuck first, _then_ dinner.”

“Mmmkay.” PL starts to close his eyes again, but stops, opens them wide, brow furrowing. “So is this like...a date?”

“Uhh.” Dubi’s mouth is suddenly very dry; he licks his lips. “You, uh...you want it to be?”

PL’s mouth curves into a slow, delighted smile. “Maybe.”

“Then _maybe_ it is a date.” Brandon kisses him again, smirking. “Grab a suit, then, we’ll go fancy as fuck for a proper maybe-date.”

“Sweet. Can’t wait,” PL says, and Brandon agrees with that sentiment.

~~~~

They laugh and talk on the drive back to Columbus, and Brandon turns on his personalized Spotify, which he normally doesn’t with a teammate in the car, because he listens to some pretty gay music sometimes. Not like, show tunes gay, but, yeah, _maybe_ there is some old school Whitney Houston, and Brandon realizes this kid probably wouldn’t even recognize that if he heard it and it makes him feel awfully old. And yes, twenty minutes into the drive a Britney Spears song comes on, and Dubi waits for the chirp, but instead PL chuckles and starts humming along and then they’re both singing at the top of their lungs, poorly, the words disrupted by their laughter.

It’s still early when they get back, and PL says he has some errands to run, so they make plans for Luc to meet at Dubi’s apartment around 4p. Enough time to fuck and have some post-sex cuddling and then go to dinner, Brandon figures. He gets back to his place and huffs in dismay at the sight; it’s been about a week since his maid was in, and the kitchen is kind of gross. He sweeps beer can after beer can into the recycling and spot cleans a little, then goes off to the nearest drive-through and buys some more beer, a few nicer craft options instead of the cheap shit Dubi tends to throw down every day.

It’s silly, he thinks, as he makes his bed with fresh linens and goes around making sure the bathrooms all have towels and soap, like PL is going to disapprove if there’s a takeout box on his counter or the decorative pillows are out of place. Brandon can’t help wanting everything to be sort of perfect, and he’s mildly annoyed about feeling that way, but it doesn’t stop him from critically eyeing every room for improvements.

He jumps in the shower around 3p and scrubs everywhere, then makes sure to trim back his beard and - fuck it, decides to clean up down below, too, not like porn star smooth but just not a jungle. He spends way too much time pondering cologne or no cologne and really, he’s gonna need to shower again after they fuck _anyway_ so that’s sort of a moot point, and his irritation sharpens a little bit that he cares this much. He finally decides no cologne, but brushes his teeth and pops in an Altoids - no, two, he decides, crunching them in his teeth and hissing, the minty fresh taste almost overpowering.

Then he takes way too fucking long to decide on what to wear, because the clothes are just gonna get stripped off anyway. Dubi has never been one to give a fuck about these kinds of things or what other people think of him, so he’s really not sure what’s gotten into him right now.

The doorbell rings while he’s eyeing two different shirts, so he throws one on and runs to the front door. He takes a moment to catch his breath and then PL is strutting inside like he belongs, bringing along a pressed suit on a hanger for their date, dressed in gym shorts and a Blue Jackets shirt, looking like he spent about ten seconds deciding what to wear. Which is exactly what Dubi should have done, except apparently PL is making him act like a fucking idiot.

“Hey,” PL says, leaning in for a kiss - Dubi places a hand on his chest, pushing back, only accepting the kiss once the door is closed. “Nobody’s looking. You said, on the boat - “

“We weren’t _kissing_ on the boat, we were having a discussion that we could be 100% sure wouldn’t be overheard. You can’t be too careful.”

PL looks like he wants to say something, but he shuts his mouth. Brandon decides to leave the ‘closet athlete’ lecture for later. Instead, he leans up and nips at PL’s mouth. “You excited?”

Luc relaxes, a bit, starts to grin. “Maybe a little nervous.”

“Oh yeah?” Dubi grabs his suit, trots off to hang it up, Luc trailing along. “Have you ever fucked a girl, PL?”

“A couple times. It’s been a few years. They were always sort of awkward, because I mostly kept my eyes closed and thought about, uh…”

“Lemme guess. Team captain?”

PL barks a laugh. “A teammate, not the captain. My juniors captain was super ugly. What, _you_ got a thing for captains? I mean, I guess you do, with Cr - “

“Don’t mention his name,” Brandon growls, playfully, finding a hanger in his bedroom closet and putting the suit up. “And no, I meant your own team captain. I wouldn’t kick Nick out of bed, let’s just say. I find it kind of hot, that, uh... _power dynamic_ , you know, your team captain’s supposed to be your leader and he’s seducing and taking you to bed - “

PL is suddenly very close, pressing Brandon into the closet door. “Huh,” he murmurs, tone dry, “You find it hot when a leader - say, maybe a _mentor_ \- is seducing someone and taking them to bed?”

Brandon blushes a little, licking his mouth. Well, fuck. “Uhhhh.”

PL lets him squirm for a minute before a smile blooms on his face, biting at Brandon’s jaw. “I guess it is pretty hot.”

The closet door protests a bit as they kiss, PL pressing him hard into it, like he wants to crawl inside Dubi. It’s made of cheaper wood and it bows and groans under the full weight of two athletes. “Bed,” Brandon gasps when Luc gets in between his thighs, grinding against him. He wouldn’t quite know how to explain away a broken closet door, next time any of the boys come over.

The frantic pace slows a bit when they get on the bed, and they leisurely shuck off shoes and shirts between kisses. Luc is crawling his hands up Dubi’s sides, and his stomach crunches further with desire. Reluctantly, he pulls away from PL’s mouth. “So the biggest difference between fucking those girls and fucking me - besides the fact that hopefully you won’t have to close your eyes and daydream about someone else - is, you gotta get me ready. Mother nature is a real bitch and didn’t give us any natural lube.” He’s already laid out his favorite lube and condoms on the bedside table, so he snags the tube now and presses it into PL’s hands, lets him take a look at it, turn it in his hands.

PL squints at it, uncaps it, _sniffs it_ , then crinkles his nose. “Huh. Smells like…”

“Like lube?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Yeah, those flavored lubes? Don’t put them in your ass.” Brandon supposes he should be frustrated, at having to give a sex lesson here before he gets fucked, but he’s sort of enjoying it, the position as the expert, the knowledge that he’s gonna be Luc’s _first._ “The biggest rule in gay sex is, until you really know your partner, you go slow. More lube is better than less lube. Oh, and.” Brandon snags PL’s hand, peering closely at it before letting it go, satisfied.

PL looks at his hand in confusion. “What was that?”

“Making sure you trimmed your nails.” Brandon chuckles at Luc’s ‘ah’ moment of realization, flopping on his back and bicycle-kicking his shorts off, bringing his boxers down, too. The sex lesson has made his dick a little soft, but the idea of PL fingering him open, teaching him how to find his prostate, well, he knows he’ll be rock hard again soon enough. He flips onto his knees, ass jutting up towards PL. “You wanna give it a try?”

Luc smacks his ass, hard, and Brandon jumps in surprise. “Sorry, couldn’t resist,” PL says, and Brandon files that little piece of information away for later as Luc pours a little bit of lube onto his fingers.

“More.”

“Huh?”

“More fucking lube than that!”

Luc takes the instructions quite literally and squeezes, hard, till he practically has a handful of the stuff. “Too much,” Brandon says, a little frustrated but mostly amused. He grabs a towel off the side chair, throws it back at PL. “C’mon, Goldilocks, you had too little and too much, now make it _just right.”_

“Cute,” PL grunts, his tone clearly indicating otherwise, wiping some off with the towel and holding his hand up for Dubi’s approval.

“Better,” Brandon says, shifting his hips further back towards PL as a gesture of approval. Luc pauses for a minute, chewing on his mouth, and then touches a finger, almost tentatively, to Brandon’s entrance. He jumps, a little; it’s cold, and he forgot to tell PL about warming it up in his hands. Luc jerks his hand back at the jump, like he’s been scalded.

“S’fine,” Brandon tells him, relaxing. “Just cold. Let it warm up a minute.”

PL does so, and at Brandon’s urging, touches his fingers back to where he was. Dubi sags his shoulders, dropping his face down to the bed. This is actually gonna happen, and he sort of can’t believe it.

He keeps a running commentary of instructions as they go. “Just run your fingers over the outside, a little. Get it all nice and slick. Yeah, like that...and then just...dip your finger, a little, inside, and just start working your way in. I’ll tell you if you need more lube.”

PL is almost _too_ slow with it all, but better than too fast. His long finger presses inside, slowly, so slowly, and Brandon’s trying to press back, open up for him. He asks for more lube halfway through - “first finger’s always the toughest,” he tells Luc, truthfully, and both men audibly sigh as PL’s hand bumps the rim, his finger unable to go any deeper.

“God, I can’t fucking wait till you’re inside me,” Brandon growls, and Luc makes this wretched sort of shuddery sigh in agreement. “More lube, second finger, just as slow. C’mon. Want it.”

The second finger is a little less tentative than the first, but still slow enough that Brandon has this anxious press on his chest, the kind he gets when he’s waiting to go over the boards for his first shift of the game, nervous and excited anticipation. He bites his forearm to keep from wiggling, and now PL has two fingers seated inside. “Curl them,” he growls, and his voice sounds rough and strangled.

“What?”

“Curl your fingers, like, press down with - _oh fuck.”_ PL does so in the middle of his sentence, and he’s suddenly pressing against Brandon’s prostate and Dubi feels like he’s gonna wiggle right off the bed. “Fuck, PL, that’s - oh God, right there, prostate, feels so fucking good - “

PL straightens his fingers and curls them again, and now Brandon is achingly hard, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to touch himself. He can see Luc’s own gym shorts tenting obviously. “More lube, and third finger, please,” he whimpers. With how big PL is, he needs it.

Through the pleasurable haze of the third finger, Dubi starts thinking about sex, and stares dazedly at the condoms. He knows they really, really should, but - Brandon knows he’s clean, and this kid is basically a _virgin…_

“Hey,” he rasps, voice coming out a little squeaky. “Those girls you fucked. They were before the combine?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“You fuck anyone since?” Dubi knows they do a full med screening for the combine - including STDs.

“No.”

“Well, you’re clean, then, and I know _I’m_ clean - and, uh, if you want…” Brandon glances back, between his legs, locks eyes with PL. “You could bareback me. If you want.”

PL’s eyes get wider. “No condom? Come inside you?”

Dubi’s dick twitches at that, and he finally cups himself, bobbing heavily in his hand. His palm is wet with his own precome. “Oh, fuck yeah. If you want - “

“Yes,” PL interrupts, eagerly, and Brandon knows he really should be teaching this kid to not trust men, when they say they’re clean, but he’ll have that safe sex discussion later. Right now the thought of Luc barebacking him, fucking him into the sheets raw until he comes, is something he physically aches for, and it’s not his brain that’s in control, for the moment.

“I’m ready, then. Get your fucking shorts off and stroke some more lube onto yourself, okay, then I’ll - you’re just gonna stay still, and I’m gonna fuck myself back on you until I say you can move, and then you’re gonna fucking give it to me. Okay?”

Brandon watches as the shorts are quickly discarded and PL strokes himself, until he’s slick and shiny with lube, wiping the excess on the towel. He kneels behind Brandon and there’s a blunt pressure then, and Dubi sighs, a deep breath to relax. “Hold still,” he mutters, and presses backwards.

PL’s cock strains for a moment against that first ring of muscle and then he’s through, pushing inside, and both men groan. Luc growls something in another language, and Brandon vaguely remembers he’s French-Canadian. You’d think with a name like _Pierre-Luc Dubois_ he wouldn’t forget, but PL doesn’t really have a typical accent, and - well, Dubi likes the muttered French. It’s as if PL has forgotten how to speak English, so yeah, he likes that a lot. It sends a thrill up his spine and he bucks back further, slowly pushing back until finally, PL is seated to the hilt.

There’s another growly French word that Dubi doesn’t know, and he stays there a moment, breathing hard, letting himself adjust. It’s definitely the biggest dick he’s ever been on.

Brandon moves slowly, fucking himself back on PL while Luc squeezes his fingers into Brandon’s hips. He can tell PL is having trouble just staying still and Brandon is, too, but waits til he’s a little more opened up before he invites Luc to move. “You wanna fuck me?” Dubi asks, when he’s ready.

“God, yes - “

“Yeah, you want it? I’m ready, baby, move, move for me.” He doesn’t quite know where that _baby_ nickname came from, just sort of slipped out, but he forgets promptly about it when PL slowly slides out and back in again, his first real thrust. Brandon can’t stop the low moan from escaping into the bed sheets. He’s never really been a size queen, but PL is big enough that he’s thrusting right against the prostate, every time, and yeah, he fucking gets it now. “C’mon, give it to me.”

PL might be only nineteen but he’s still an NHL player, with all the hip strength that comes with that, and Brandon’s eyes water a little when he gets going hard. Every thrust offers a sizzle of pain and then a burst of pleasure as he bottoms on Brandon’s prostate, and he finds himself whimpering and cursing, and suddenly wants more than anything to watch PL when he comes. “Wait - want - on my back - “ Dubi tips forward so PL pulls out of him, twisting around to lay on his back and yanking Luc down. They mash their mouths together in a brutal, desperate kiss before PL disengages, slipping around Brandon’s entrance for a moment before finding the right angle and thrusting back in, then going down for another kiss.

They keep their mouths sealed as PL thrusts, and Brandon has his hands in Luc’s hair, stroking and yanking while he moans into the younger man’s mouth, legs tucked up on PL’s hips. He can tell this isn’t going to last much longer, and after a moment PL pulls away, throwing his head back and breathing fast, making little breathy moans with each harsh exhale.

“You gonna come?” Brandon asks, although he already knows the answer to that. “C’mon, Luc, you gonna come, baby?” There’s that nickname, again; Brandon ignores it a second time.

“Yeah, yeah, _yes_ \- “ And then there’s more French, and one last, hard thrust and Brandon stares up as PL comes, wanting to memorize his expression, hand jerking on his dick as he watches.

PL stays that way for a moment, eyes glassy, then blinks dumbly down at Brandon as he notices Dubi stroking himself, making little huffing noises. “You didn’t come.”

“It’s not the movies, Luc,” he pants out, wrapping his legs around PL’s waist, not wanting him to slide out yet. “Y’don’t usually finish at the same time.”

“Let me - “ PL wiggles a hand down there, and now there’s two big hands stroking Brandon and he’s pretty close, tips his head back, toes curling a little. PL attaches his mouth to the newly-exposed neck, little nips from jaw to collarbone, murmuring encouragement. “That’s it, _mon ours,_ please…”

Brandon is chanting a steady stream of filth, _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ and a few variations as he teeters on the edge for a moment and then crashes over, coming harder than he’s remembered doing in a long time. PL makes a pleased noise, pulling away to watch Brandon spill on his stomach and all over his fist.

“God, that’s hot,” PL tells him, and they kiss, deep and sated, until he gets soft enough to slip out. Even then, Brandon doesn’t want to let him go, but does, his mouth swollen and a little chapped from so much use over the past few days.

“How was it?” he asks, hissing a little as PL pulls away and he can lower his legs down to the bed. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, he can already tell.

“Amazing. Seriously, just - I mean - “ PL seems lost for words, grinning wildly. Brandon can tell he’s gonna want nothing else but to play hockey and fuck him, for a few weeks at least; he’s going to need to engage in some self-care and not get hurt.

“I know. Fuck, it was good.” PL throws him a towel, and wipes off his belly and between his thighs. “What did you call me, anyway?”

“Hmm?”

“You said something, in French, at the end. Mon - I know that means my - something. Your what?” Dubi doesn’t speak a lot of French, but he’s very interested to hear what PL considers him. The little possessive _my_ does not go unnoticed, and he’s not sure how to feel about it, but mostly he’s - pleased.

PL ducks his head, a soft, embarrassed smile on his face. “ _L’ours._ It means… - don’t laugh.”

“I won’t laugh. I mean, unless it’s stupid, then I’ll totally laugh.”

Luc throws a pillow in his direction. “Maybe I just won’t tell you?”

_“Tell me.”_

“Oh, fine. It’s a Quebecois express of affection. It means, ‘my bear’.”

“Bear?!” Brandon almost slaps his forehead. “Dude, do you not watch any gay porn? Do you know what that word means?”

PL smiles, quizzically. “Yeah, I see it sometimes. It always seems to be, um, kind of bigger guys - “

“Oh my God.” Brandon takes a deep breath, pretending to be upset, like he has to compose himself while PL snickers. “Okay, fresh fag, a _bear,_ in gay parlance, is a big, hairy dude. Like, yeah, sometimes they’re muscular, but usually they’re just big old fat hairy leather dudes, and man, _c’mon.”_

PL snorts a laugh, giggling. “You are far hairier than I am.”

“Maybe a little! Not like, _bear_ level hairy. Anyway, you’re bigger than me!”

“In height! Not…” PL pokes his stomach, and Brandon growls, pretending to be angry, grabbing Luc’s wrist and hauling him down for a short wrestling match. Dubi still has come and lube dripping out of him and fuck, his bed is going to be _disgusting,_ but he’s pretty okay with that, he has a change of sheets for a reason. They wrestle until they’re both panting, already exhausted from the sex, and Brandon, to his chagrin, ends up on the bottom. “Maybe I should call you _mon petit,_ eh?”

Brandon tries elbowing him in the ribs. “You have one fuckin’ inch on me, asshole.”

“One lousy inch and you can’t fight me off.” PL kisses behind his ear, drawing a shiver.

“Maybe I don’t want to fight you off, you think of that,” Brandon moans as PL keeps kissing the sensitive area, nipping the shell of his ear. His mind is willing to go again, but his body… “Stop, stop. I’m hungry, and I don’t quite have your libido anymore.”

“You’re old,” PL agrees, and as soon as he’s off, Brandon throws a pillow right in his face.

“Fuck you,” he grins. “Come on, let’s shower.”


	6. Chapter 6

Brandon takes Luc to M, one of the nicer Columbus restaurants. Dubi likes it; the food is good, the cocktails are strong, and there’s a little private room meant to look like a wine cellar where they can eat and talk without being overheard.

They leave the suit jackets at home, so Luc’s in his suit pants and a nice pressed shirt with the top button hanging open. It’s fucking dumb, because Dubi sees PL in a goddamn suit all the time, this isn’t something new, but he has a hard time not staring. I mean, they’re out on a fucking _date_. A nice date, at that. And PL looks hot as hell.

He knows it, too, giving Brandon these half-lidded, knowing looks and running his tongue slowly over his lower lip, that fucker. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, and Brandon could fucking destroy him right now.

“You’re a real ass, sometimes,” Brandon tells him, trying to nurse his old fashioned slowly, because he decided to take some PKs at home and would prefer not to die in his sleep. He probably shouldn’t mix them, period, but he’s done it before and been fine.

PL smirks a little. “Maybe.” He reaches across the table, snaking his arm slowly, starting to curl his fingers around Brandon’s wrist, and Dubi jerks his hand back and stares at him like he’s crazy.

“What are you doing?”

PL blinks, looking surprised. “Just, uh - this is a...date? And nobody can see us.”

Brandon squints, disbelievingly. “Never believe that _nobody can see us_ when we’re out in public. Even if we’re in a private room. Do you want to be out or something? Because if you do, hell, Luc, ain’t nothing stopping you, but you’re not bringin’ me with you.”

PL looks down into his water, and once again, Brandon’s reminded that he’s not even old enough to drink, here. “I thought Crosby was the self-loathing gay man,” he mutters.

Oh, fuck no. Brandon nearly chokes on his drink. “You think that’s fucking fair, Luc? Really? I don’t hate myself, but I’m fuckin’ _realistic._ This gets out, it ends my career. Guaranteed.”

“I think you’re being melodramatic,” Luc says. “Crosby could come out tomorrow and the league would mandate gay pride days at every damn rink.”

“I am not Sidney _fucking_ Crosby,” Brandon grits, and he can’t keep the bitter note out of his voice. “And neither are you, although you’ll be closer than me to that status. I - _we_ don’t have that leverage. I ask again, you really want to be out?”

“Well, I mean, maybe not _immediately_. But.” PL’s looking a little anxious, now. “I mean, this is a date, right? But if we can’t be out at some point in the future - what’s the end game here? Like, is this a relationship?”

“You want it to be?”

“I - “ PL is interrupted by the server, and both men quiet down immediately, trying to put on neutral faces as their food arrives. Brandon’s grateful that he has a distraction, now, that he can shove food in his mouth to prevent him from saying something stupid.

He’s staring at PL to finish his thought, but he insists on taking a bite of food, first, and Dubi suppresses a flare of irritation. Finally, he starts talking again. “I mean...maybe? I had a great time this weekend, and would like to spend more time with you. A lot more time,” he says, softly, like he’s nervous about Brandon’s reaction. Dubi can feel his annoyance crack in half at the wave of affection that brings.

“Yeah, well, I had fun this weekend, too, PL. But the fact is that we’re gonna have to be a secret. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you - “

“Well, you kind of are.” Brandon grunts, annoyed again, and PL continues. “I mean, if we _both_ come out - “

“No.”

“And we could get Crosby to come out - “

_“Ha!”_

“And you said there’s other gay men. Strength in numbers, if we all come out, right? I don’t want to hide for the next fifteen years of my life, Brandon, that just seems unhealthy. I mean, what does your love life look like? Really?”

Brandon chews his food, slowly, heaving a sigh after the swallow. “There isn’t one,” he admits.

“Has there ever been one?”

Brandon shoves another bite of food in, feeling his stomach twist uncomfortably. “No,” he mutters, when he’s done chewing. “The last few years, it’s just been Crosby. And that's definitely not love. Then before that, in New York - “ He cuts off, suddenly, not wanting to go into that, realizing it won’t help his case in the slightest.

But PL isn’t dumb, and he’s not going to let that sentence fragment go. “In New York?” he prompts.

“Uh, In New York, there’s a lot more anonymity, lots of celebrities, right? So there are certain gay clubs that cater towards privacy. You could go and pick up, or fuck right there in certain parts of the club. So I was a member of one of those.”

“I don’t understand. How did they cater towards _privacy?_ How could you be sure you weren’t picking up a Rangers fan?”

“Ugh.” Brandon suppresses an eye roll; he was hoping PL would just leave it there. _“Fine._ You, uh...in this gay club, everyone wore masks. You know, like, have you ever seen that movie Eyes Wide Shut?”

“What’s that?”

“Jesus Christ,” Brandon mutters. “Never mind. Anyway, the whole thrill of the club was, you could be fucking a big celebrity and not even know it, because everyone’s wearing a mask. So if you’re even mildly famous but you don’t want people to know you like dick, you go there. I mean, you could pick up and bring someone home, and reveal your identity, but pretty much it was just a bathhouse with some level of privacy.”

PL doesn’t look impressed. “That’s just fucking _sad,”_ he declares. “I don’t want to have anonymous sex with strangers with a mask on, Brandon.”

Truthfully, Brandon doesn’t want that anymore, either. But at one time… “I find that hard to believe. When I was your age, having five dicks in my face at the same time was just a nice relaxing Friday night.”

PL groans in frustration, stabbing a vegetable with his fork, hard. “I just want _you,_ Brandon,” he mutters, quietly. “Maybe you still want that club - “

“I don’t. PL...Luc...no, I don’t.” Brandon sighs, drops his fork to the plate with a clatter. “I liked it at one point. But I’m thirty-one. Fucking strangers has lost its appeal, you know? But, uh...I’ve never really actually made a _connection_ with anyone, okay? Like, a relationship thing? Never. So I’ll warn you, I’m gonna be fucking terrible at this.”

PL quirks the side of his mouth up. “Maybe. So we’ll both have firsts. You’ll be my first in bed, and I’ll be your first relationship.”

God, that sounds pathetic as hell. Brandon grunts, covers his face with his hands; he’s getting a little emotional, right now, doesn’t want to show it. PL reaches across and grabs a wrist, tugging it down and this time, Brandon lets him take his hand. Just for a quick moment, a little, reassuring squeeze, but. Enough.

“I like you a lot, Luc,” Brandon tells him, with a nervous smile, their fingertips still touching across the table. “But maybe...maybe, you think, we could get through at least your first _month_ in the league before hoisting up your rainbow flag?”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to resign myself to the next fifteen or whatever years of being in the closet. It’s fucking bullshit. I won’t be miserable like that, for that long.”

Brandon hears the unspoken implication, that PL doesn’t want to be like him, thirty-one years old and fucking an opposing player he doesn’t particularly like for want of _some_ kind of touch, emotionally stilted and painfully lonely. He can’t say he really blames him, but...somehow, he thinks Luc is going to change his mind, when he really gets into the league, hears the other players on the ice snarl out insults, _faggot_ and _cocksucker_ and _hey, while you’re down there on your knees, huh?_ When he realizes this fantasy of getting every other queer NHL’er and coming out together and singing some kumbaya shit is a pipe dream.

Maybe PL has a bigger set of balls than he does and he’ll actually come out. But, Brandon thinks, probably not. He doesn’t say that, though. Doesn’t want to ruin the mood.

His old fashioned is drained dry and, begrudgingly, he switches to water.

~~~~~

PL stays the night, because fuck it, why not, he can tell Savard something. Brandon is sort of obsessed with having somebody in his bed with him, waking up to a warm body. He’s fucked plenty of guys, but he never let any of them stay the night, never _slept_ with Crosby. It’s new, and he likes it, especially because that body he’s waking up next to is PL.

He insists they take separate cars, though, to the Ice Haus, their practice rink right outside Nationwide. He doesn’t want to arouse any suspicion. Torts doesn’t make them practice too early, 9:30a, but Brandon knows their first regular season bout - a divisional one, no less, against the Islanders - is looming in just a few days and practice is gonna be rough.

And so it is. Halfway through, Cam catches Brandon yawning and gives him shit for it. “Hot date last night, Dubi?” he asks, pretending to check Brandon into the boards while they’re waiting for their turn on the drill.

He did probably stay up too late last night, talking and making out with PL. He looks over at the other side of the ice; Luc looks bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Probably chock full of adrenaline for this shit, still pumped and excited for real NHL practices. “What can I say, Cammer, I gotta fend those bitches off with sticks sometimes,” he smirks, nudging Atkinson, who laughs loudly.

“You’re full of shit,” Cam says, before Torts blows his whistle and they’re off down the ice.

It’s less strange than Dubi might have thought, overall. In practice, they’re both concentrating hard enough on their job, all the shit they need to make strides in the league, for anything to be awkward. It’s the locker room before and after where Brandon half expects things to be weird. Torts has put PL’s locker right next to his. He doesn’t want to ignore Luc, but also doesn’t want to be too friendly. Basically, he wants to treat PL as if he _didn’t_ have his dick inside Brandon last night. He figured that might be a challenge, and there is one or two strange lingering looks, but overall no issues. Everyone’s excited to just get this fucking season rolling, already, that they don’t really notice anything else.

Brandon spends a lot of time talking to the press, and then in the trainer’s room, getting electro-stim. His phone buzzes in his hands, and he makes a mental note to change his settings to where you can’t see the text preview before you unlock the screen. Because right there, as soon as he presses the screen on, is a notification that PL texted him. _Hey can I come back to your_ is all the preview says, but it’s enough, and no fucking way does Dubi want anyone else seeing even the first half of that sentence. It’s easy enough to guess the second half.

He texts PL back, keeping an eye out for the trainer. _isnt savy gonna get suspicous_

_Fuck no, I’m bangin all those OSU undergrads amiright?_

_u wanna see me again so soon? u want it that bad?_

An eggplant emoji and a winky face comes in return. Brandon is gonna give him shit about that, later, but for the moment, he’s pretty eager to continue where they left off, too.

_fine. but different cars_

More eggplants. Brandon finds the setting on his phone to change the text preview and sets it to none, just as the trainer returns to remove the stim pads.

~~~~~

The Jackets are at home, the next few days, practicing and talking to the media and doing promos. Brandon and PL tend to end up at Dubi’s house, and he’s already heard Savy chirping PL about those college sluts. He decides to pare it down a little; no more than two overnights per week at Dubi’s house, no matter how much PL pouts. They still hang out in the evenings, almost every night. That’s probably suspicious enough.

As he suspected, PL wants to fuck him _a lot._ He gets it. Freshly deflowered teenager with his object of desire in bed with him, it’s not like it’s a surprise. Brandon keeps Luc at bay with hands and mouths, keeps him coming, just not inside him. “People are going to notice if I’m walking funny,” he jokes, but he relents two days later and they fuck again because PL promises to take it slow this time.

Luc mostly does take it slow, although he forgets himself at the end, when he’s close to coming, snapping his hips in a way that makes Brandon whimper and moan because it’s _so good_ in the moment, but it comes with a cost. The next day Dubi has a charity golf tournament and his swing is gonna be so fucked it’s not even funny.

He gets dressed in his golf duds after practice and post-showering. PL smirks, leans over to mutter, “Jesus, _that_ is what you’re wearing?”

Brandon glances down to see if there’s anything off. Polo, golf shorts; Fligs and Jonesy and Calvy and a few others are going, too, and he doesn’t look any different than they do. In fact, Brandon has this fucking hideous all-orange number, including orange pants, that he’s worn plenty of times to golf. He loves it, but he knows it’s ugly. He pulls the picture up on his phone, shows it to PL, who looks horrified.

“Never mind,” he says. “I withdraw my complaint.”

“I swear if my drive is fucked up, I’m blaming you,” Brandon mutters in his direction, low enough that Matt Calvert - on his other side - can’t hear.

“Even if I promise to make it up to you?”

A shadow suddenly falls on the pair and there’s a laughing figure in front of them. Seth Jones looks delighted. “Look at you two whispering. It’s... _the Dubi brothers,”_ he proclaims, looking extremely pleased with himself. Calvert snorts in amusement.

Brandon knows he needs to cut _that_ nickname off at the pass, especially because he knows PL’s nickname in juniors was Dubi, and hell, it is pretty clever. So he gasps, drops his jaw at Seth, looking shocked. “Holy shit, buddy, you never told us?”

“Told you what?” Seth is still smirking, but now he’s waiting for the clap back chirp.

“That you had a fucking _kid._ I mean, with a Dad joke like that…”

Matt laughs at that, and so does PL, and Seth rolls his eyes but he’s laughing, too, and Brandon figures that nickname is gone. “Whatever. You’re gonna get destroyed today, old man. You too, slightly younger but still old man,” Seth says, addressing Brandon and then Matt in turn. Calvert flips him off; Dubi just grins.

“Not only am I gonna spank your ass,” he declares, “But I’m gonna get drafted first. You just watch.”

~~~~~

The Blue Jackets Golf Classic is an event that Brandon enjoys every year. Each attending Jacket player gets drafted onto a foursome of typically old white dudes and then they go golfing and try to be the best group. There’s a trophy and everything. Dubi fucking _loves_ winning, even if it’s a stupid golf trophy for a charity event, so he is raring and ready to go.

He doesn’t get drafted first - that goes to Wenny, of all people. Alex isn’t the best golfer, so it’s a bit of a surprise, but Dubi looks over to find the foursome who drafted first includes two women, and suddenly it makes sense. Wennberg’s not really his type, too pretty, but he’s not gonna deny that kid is unfairly fucking hot.

Brandon does get drafted second, though. Four old white rich dudes, just as he suspected. “In your _face,”_ he hisses to Seth as he goes by to join his group, offering them smiles and high-fives as the rest of the Jackets get drafted onto their own teams.

He makes an effort to be present and social with his group while they’re out on the links, phone tucked away, not thinking about PL too much. These guys did pay two grand each just for this event, and it’s for a great cause. He wants to keep them coming back, spend some more money for the Jackets Foundation.

At one point the conversation turns to hockey. “Whaddaya think about these new kids coming up?” one of the guys asks. “Milano, Dubois?”

Brandon can feel a grin split his face at the mention of the name. He tries to tamp it down, but why? Fuck it, he _is_ excited about PL, and not just for his dick. “They’re gonna be assets, you just watch,” he says. “That Dubois kid is gonna live up to his draft selection. You’re gonna be real impressed with him this year, mark my words.”

“He gonna be playing with you? You guys looked great together against Pittsburgh.”

Brandon laughs, wiping his brow with a forearm. “He’s gonna outgrow my skill pretty quick, but - I’ll take what I can get. Right?”

Dubi plays _amazing_ the rest of the course, confident, calm, and happy. It’s the best game he’s had in awhile.

~~~~~

Brandon dances with the golf trophy all night, holding it high, taking pictures with his group, and making sure to show it off to Seth whenever he can. Because they _won._ Dubi’s a _winner._

He texts the trophy to PL, and gets back, _Didn’t fuck up your swing that bad I guess?_

_u got lucky_

_Well come to your place and I’ll give you a better trophy. I’ll be waiting for you. One hour._

The next thing he sends is a picture of his dick. Brandon jams his phone back in his pant pocket, praying that nobody saw it.

“I know that look.”

Brandon nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice behind him. Boone Jenner is nursing a Michelob Ultra - he’s injured, so trying to keep calories down, and that means shitty beer - and smirking. Knowingly. “What?” Brandon snaps, probably more intense than he should have.

Boone takes it in stride. “That’s the some-chick-just-sent-me-her-tits kind of look, accompanied by the quick peek and then shove your phone out of sight you just did. What, you give your digits to those ladies?” Jenner indicates the two older women who were golfing with Wenny, earlier; they’re both at least 50.

“You like older women, don’tcha, Jens? Those ladies look hot to _trot,”_ Brandon chirps, feeling his shoulders move a little further south from where they were stuck up above his ears. “Hey, I hear getting some is good for rehab, and I hear you’ve been striking out lately. Head on over there and try your luck.”

“Maybe you should give me the number of that chick that just texted you and I’ll show her what a real good time looks like.”

“You wish.”

Jens just laughs, and then they’re talking about hockey, normal shit, and then both of them are being paraded to the donors one last time, make them feel like their money was worth it. The whole time, Brandon thinks how he’s gonna fucking _strangle_ PL for that dick pic move.

Fucking Millennials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dubi's orange golf outfit is a thing!](https://i.imgur.com/To5IvPl.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brandon continues to use Not Great language in thought and word.

PL tends to leave Dubi’s apartment unlocked when he’s inside, so Brandon barges right in, unannounced.

Luc’s out into the living room in a hot second, eyes wide before he relaxes, head rolling back to glance skyward, as if to say, _thank God._ “Oh, Brandon.”

“Lock my door, you fuckin’ retard,” Brandon snaps, and it’s not his teasing tone, it’s his annoyed-as-hell tone. Luc picks up on it right away, frowning.

“Sorry, I’ll try to remember. But I mean, you gotta have a code to even get into this building, it’s pretty safe - “

“That’s not the point.” PL’s not incorrect; Brandon’s not sure there’s ever even been a theft at his complex. “Fine. It’s not that.” Brandon flops down on the couch, sighing, tone softening a little but still frustrated. “Although you _should_ lock my fucking door. But no, it’s about that shit you sent tonight.”

“The picture?”

“That’s the one. I already deleted it, but Jesus, Luc. You can’t just…” Brandon trails off, and Luc is still watching him, like he needs to have that sentence finished. “You can’t just - you fuckin’ know! Send that shit around. It’s not...didn’t we already talk about this closet shit?”

PL shrugs, detouring to the kitchen to grab a drink, tossing Brandon his favorite flavor of Gatorade. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. My teammates in junior used to text each other dick pics all the time.”

“Jesus, juniors has changed a lot,” Brandon mutters, cracking the drink open and taking a swig. “Really?”

“Yeah. Here, I think I still have most of them, you wanna see?”

“You think I wanna see a bunch of 17 year olds naked?” He kind of does, but. “That’s illegal, sooooo. No, thanks, and you should delete that shit, too.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not _that_ weird. You’re telling me nobody does that stuff in the bigs?” Luc pops down next to Brandon on the couch, immediately nuzzling into his neck, and Dubi tries to hold on to his irritation. It’s hard, especially as PL starts mouthing the scruff right where his beard starts, the sensitive underside of his jaw.

“Well…I mean, it’s not unheard of. It’s just not that normal or common. This league isn’t quite as faggy as your juniors team, Luc.”

“Yeah, but. You could laugh it off; you said it yourself, not unheard of. Plus, you’re deleting them, and I’m not showing any identifying features, right?” PL has moved up to his ear, and Brandon shivers, trying to tilt his head away and stay angry; Luc won’t let him go, sucking his earlobe into his mouth. “I won’t do it every day or anything. Just. I missed you.”

“Stop,” Brandon grunts, to no avail. “You, uh. You just can’t, like - it’s not, ummm...don’t…” His brain has seemed to stop functioning, he realizes, because PL has a hand positioned in between his legs now, rolling his palm.

“So just be more careful with your damn phone,” Luc chirps, grabbing Brandon’s chin and pulling it in for a kiss, then letting the subject drop like that’s the final word. “You said you won tonight? I saw that big trophy. Maybe you want a reward?”

Brandon sets aside the Gatorade and yanks PL into his lap, just like that first night on the lake house, dick pic temporarily forgotten with the promise of getting off in the immediate future. “You can’t fuck me,” he smirks. “I’m still too sore. But I was thinking, if you’re offering a _reward…”_

“Yeah?” Luc is heavy in his lap, grinning down at him, like he’s an old pro at this gay sex shit and not a young kid that Brandon has shown about a million firsts to over the last week.

“Remember when I said some guys find it really hot to come all over your face?” Brandon has his hands all over Luc, now, up his body, cupping his face and neck. Sometimes he still has to convince himself this is all _real._

“Mmm.” PL kisses him, grins against his mouth, his own hands roaming under Dubi’s shirt. “Yeah, would ‘some guys’ include you?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Put you on your knees, you blow me, and then I jerk off all over your face. Have all my unborn children dripping off your chin.”

PL gags at that, melodramatically. “Holy shit, Brandon, that sounds gross.”

Brandon just laughs at PL’s face, kissing him again. “Oops, did I accidentally go over the ‘sexy dirty porn talk’ line into ‘gross weird shit’?”

“Yes, God yes, never use that line again.” PL looks thoughtful, for a minute. “You won’t get it in my eyes, will you?”

“I’ll try not to. Sometimes it sort of goes where it goes, though.”

“Alright, well, I’ll _try._ Only because you won - “

Brandon stops PL as he’s going for another kiss, earning an odd look from Luc.

“Lock the fuckin’ door first,” Brandon says, and now his teasing tone is back. PL clambers off his lap, locks the door, and is back to Dubi, sinking to his knees this time.

They’ve blown each other enough, the past few days, that Brandon is starting to teach PL just how he likes it. That very notion sends a thrill right to his gut; the fact that there’s someone who likes him enough to know his _preferences._ Brandon likes it to start off slow, plenty of attention paid to the head, before establishing a nice, steady rhythm, hand and mouth working together.

“So good,” Brandon praises PL when he’s in the middle of it all, bobbing up and down and up and down, that nice firm steady rhythm he likes. He takes a chance and reaches down, threading his fingers in Luc’s hair; he’s been pretty hands-off with the kid so far, knows how intimidating it can be to have somebody push you down. But PL just moans around his cock, and Brandon takes that as an encouraging sign, so he tightens his grip and bucks up.

Luc pulls off a minute, coughing. “Sorry,” Brandon says, sheepishly, releasing his head.

“It’s just a little too much right now,” PL says, wiping his mouth. “I wanna - God, I want it. I want your hands in my hair, yanking, thrusting down my throat. But I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Brandon’s mouth goes dry at that, because _holy fuck._ But he can wait. He’s a patient man. He nods, gently pulls PL’s chin back down to start sucking again. “Oh, we’ll wait till you’re ready. This is pretty fuckin’ good, too,” he encourages, and that’s mostly true. Luc is still a little too toothy, and his bobs are still pretty shallow, but he’s getting there. Brandon’s worked up by the thought of PL on his knees, face fucking him, making those little gagging sounds, and suddenly he’s close, tapping Luc’s cheek.

PL pulls off dutifully, sitting back on his haunches and looking up expectantly. “Open your mouth,” Brandon says, jerking himself in quick strokes. PL does, but he also keeps wincing, like he’s expecting to get an eye shot any second now. It’s not the sexiest thing he’s seen in his life, for sure. “Oh, close your eyes, ya fuckin’ mook,” Dubi tells him, fondly, panting staccato breaths punctuating his request. Much better - with his eyes closed, PL just looks eager for it, a sort of longing look that Brandon finds so hot in porn and is now live and in person in front of him.

“Fuck, you ready?” Brandon asks, and then he’s coming, aiming for PL’s open mouth. It gets on his cheeks, chin, nose, into his mouth - but nowhere near his eyes, Brandon thinks, triumphantly.

Dubi slumps down, blinking languidly at PL, still on his knees. Luc cracks an eye open, smiles grandly, and runs his tongue in a wide arc around his mouth, catching the bits splattered under his nose and on his chin. It nearly takes Brandon’s breath away, this man on his knees in front of him, so eagerly licking his come off his own face, a guy that he actually _likes_ and cares about, not just some random lay. Fuck, it’s everything he ever wanted.

“Get up here,” he growls, hauling PL back on his lap, kissing him hard and desperate and sloppy while he paws at Luc’s shorts. He’s only half-hard, but that ends quickly as he bucks into Brandon’s eager fingers.

“This is supposed to be _your_ reward,” he rebukes, without any bite behind it.

“Making you come is my reward,” Brandon tells him, and PL gives that pretty, long-lashed blush he enjoys so much. He decides he wants Luc in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to move, either, still feeling tired and boneless from his orgasm. So he has Luc stand up, on the couch, in a little bit of a crouch to line his dick up right with Brandon’s mouth. As Dubi blows him, he urges Luc to rock his hips and thrust into his mouth. There’s a little hesitation, but PL gets into it quickly; Brandon’s an expert at tucking his teeth and letting someone fuck down his throat, and based on how fast Luc comes, he seems to like it.

“You spoil me,” PL mutters as he drops down next to Brandon. “That’s what I want - just like that, just opening my mouth and you... _using it._ I find it kinda hot.”

Brandon growls. He’s lucky he’s not nineteen anymore, or he’d jump Luc again. “We’ll just have to practice,” he rumbles. “But for now, you should go wipe your face, you little cock slut.”

Brandon gets the exact response he wants - a laugh and a wink - and watches Luc head to the bathroom to wash up, feeling so affectionate his heart is going to burst.

~~~~~

It’s hours before opening night, and Brandon needs to get to the arena within the next 45 minutes. He makes sure his tie is laying correctly, smoothing down his suit, and wants so bad to be with PL it’s making him fidgety. He imagines them getting dressed together for the game, tying each other’s ties, stealing quick little kisses as they button each others’ suit jackets. Brandon doesn’t let himself dwell on how disgustingly domestic that whole scene would be.

But PL’s parents are in town, of course, see their baby boy make the big show. It’s a big deal. Brandon hasn’t met them, doesn’t think he really wants to. Not yet. That would make shit seem too serious, he feels.

 _look nice tonite you’re walking the blu carpet for opening night,_ he’d texted PL earlier, and gotten a number of pictures in return. Brandon had vetoed a couple options until Luc sends him the latest selfie, grey suit, white shirt, looking dapper as fuck.

 _thats the fuckin one,_ he texts, along with the emoji with hearts for eyes.

He gets there before Savy and PL, and walks the carpet, grinning widely. The ‘blue carpet’ is the Jackets’ twist on the red carpet; the fans line up, in the plaza, to fist bump and high five the players on opening night as they enter in the arena. Brandon soaks up the love and praise from the fans. _You’re my favorite player,_ people scream, and he’ll never get sick of hearing that phrase, not fucking ever.

_We love you, Dubi!_

Brandon wonders, sometimes, if he came out, if he’d still get those cheers. But he’s never gonna find out, because coming out isn’t in the cards, so he shoves that in the back of his brain and waves and grins some more.

Everyone tends to wear something new to opening night. Dubi’s gone pretty conservative this time, after he heard two weeks of chirping about his purple polka-dot tie last year. Fliggy wolf-whistles when Savy and PL walk through the door.

“Takin’ fashion lessons from Wenny, I see,” Nick calls to Luc, smirking. PL blushes a little as Wennberg lets out a proud cheer.

“Hey, I’m a good fucking influence on him,” Savard boasts. “I sure as hell wouldn’t let him do what _you_ did last year, Fligs.”

Nick rolls his eyes. Last year, he hadn’t even worn a suit; it had been black pants and a blue sport coat, and it was the least fashionable thing Brandon had ever seen. He’d been grateful, at the time, because it took some attention off his tie. Not all, but some. “Aw, fuck off.”

“Glad to see you decided to grace us with an actual _suit_ this year,” Savard chirps back, and PL slides next to Brandon with a grin, looking so fucking hot. The boys are laughing, loose, a crisp energy in the locker room as their first game is finally upon them, Brandon has his extremely sexy - _boyfriend,_ he supposes, sitting right next to him, and he hasn’t been this excited for opening night in a long time. He returns the grin back to Luc and starts loosening his not-purple-polka-dotted tie.

~~~~~

Brandon centers a line with PL and Calvy, and he’s on the ice when Luc gets his first NHL goal, scoops the puck up into his glove before joining the celebration. It might be the fifth goal of a 5-0 drubbing but it’s still a big fucking deal; you never forget your first. And in front of PL’s family, no less. Dubi is so, so happy for him.

The locker room is _alive_ afterwards, Brandon always forgets how much he misses this over the summer, and he jumps on Sonny and Bobrovsky and Panarin and PL, too, spreading the love around, because holy fuck everyone did great. He doesn’t envy Nick; as the captain, he gives out the first kepi of the year, the Civil War-style hat which is the Blue Jackets’ player of the game award. Sonny and Luc both got their first NHL goals, Bob got a shut out, and it was Panarin’s first goal with the club. A lot of worthy boys in the locker room, tonight.

Foligno ends up giving it to PL, who beams as he accepts the cap, shoving it on his head when the boys scream for him to put it on and give a speech. Brandon gets dressed while he talks, pretending to be mostly uninterested. Only when all eyes are no longer on PL does he produce the goal puck, handing it over to Luc, whose grin gets bigger, if that was possible. “Here it is,” he tells PL. “Keep this shit safe. Your first goal!”

“Not your fuckin’ last. What a fucking game, PL. We’re all proud of you,” Fligs chimes in from the other side of Luc, very captainly shit, and then the press arrives and Brandon goes off to shower while Luc smiles and answers questions for the corp.

He finishes and dresses quickly. They have a back-to-back, _already,_ in Gary Bettman’s infinite fucking wisdom, and they have to go to Chicago tonight. The locker room is slowly emptying, and he’s contemplating putting in hair product when PL makes a pleased noise next to him and there’s a shout of joy at the locker room door. Foligno is shaking hands with Sonny and Luc’s families, offering them to come in now that the guys are all dressed, and they stream towards their sons with big grins on their faces.

No hair gel, Brandon decides quickly, wanting to get out as soon as possible, grabbing his wallet, rifling around his pockets to check for his keys. He doesn’t want to intrude on family time, but his fucking keys, he sort of needs to know where they are and they’re not in his pocket as usual. He stays a healthy step away from the Dubois family, back turned towards them as he sweeps his locker for any sign of the errant fob.

It’s impossible not to listen in as they congratulate Luc, tell him they love him, that they’re so proud of him. They are an affectionate family, Brandon can tell immediately, open and loving. If - _when_ \- PL comes out to them, they’ll accept him with open arms and a wide smile. That’s easy enough to tell. Fuck, they’ll probably hang rainbow banners and join PFLAG within the first hour.

Brandon’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be disowned, or any of that shit, and he’s pretty sure his family would accept him coming out, but...there’s a sliver of doubt, with him, the possibility that his Dad might kick up a fuss, his brother might become distant, at least at first. He just doesn’t _know_ for sure, and that’s a scary prospect. He’s definitely never been huggy sort of affectionate close with his family like Luc is, and the Dubinskys don’t talk about their feelings or any of that shit. Hell, maybe his family already knows? He’s thirty-one and hasn’t brought a serious girlfriend over since he was a teenager. But, then again, they’ve never even hinted about the possibility, so...probably they’re just oblivious.

He spots his key fob under his locker, where it apparently had fallen from his pocket. He ducks to grab it and turns to go, but is stopped in his tracks by Luc. “Hey, Brandon. I want you to meet…”

Ah, fuck.

Dubi turns with his best, politest smile as PL finishes his sentence. “...my parents, Eric, Jill, and my sister, Daphne. My Dad is a coach in the A. He coached Savy back in the Q.”

Ah, so that’s why PL is staying with Savard. He shakes each of their hands in turn, offers little hellos and platitudes. “Well, great to meet you folks. Sounds like PL comes from quite the pedigree. We’re excited and very lucky to have him.”

PL opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, and Brandon gives him a side-eye, not 100% trusting Luc to not introduce them as _boyfriends_ or something monumentally fucking stupid like that. But instead, he says, “Brandon’s been one of my mentors so far. He was my center tonight out there.”

“Exciting to be there for his first goal,” Brandon says, swiping the puck from Luc’s locker behind him and presenting it to his family. His Dad takes it, grinning, and Brandon takes the opportunity to sneak away.

The drive to the airport is uneventful. He likes these drives; 270 is empty due to the late hour, and he can go _fast,_ listen to loud rock music that would make any straight redneck proud, still amped up and jittery from the game. Brandon’s learned a long time ago that he just needs to feed the energy until it overloads and gives up and lets him sleep. No use trying to tame it or calm it down. Some guys go all herbal teas and soothing music on their drive; that’s never worked for Dubi.

“How the fuck are you already asleep,” he growls at Nick when he gets on the plane. Fliggy likes to take the aisle seat, and he’s sprawled out, eyes closed. “Move your ass, I ain’t climbing over you.”

“Oh, Fliggy is just pretending to be asleep so you climb over and put your junk in his face,” Cam pipes up from a few seats away as Nick finally pops an eye open. “Right, Nicky?”

Fligs grunts, pulling himself out of the seat and grabbing Brandon around the waist, pretending to hump him against the seat for a moment before letting him go. “I don’t need to pretend to be asleep to get this,” he jokes, to a few laughs, and Brandon punches him in the shoulder and slides into his seat. Really, he’s exceedingly fucking grateful to Nick, for knowing his secret but not being _weird,_ not refusing to touch him, not treating him any differently than any of the other boys. Gay jokes are the norm in the league, and Dubi would feel like an outsider if he wasn’t included in them, even if they do sometimes cross the line.

Nick is right back asleep before the plane even takes off. PL and Sonny end up in the seats across the aisle; Brandon studiously ignores Luc while he fucks around on his iPad. Only after they’re in the air and he’s lost his fifth game of Hearts does he glance over.

Luc is reading an eBook, _reading,_ Jesus Christ, this kid, with Sonny asleep beside him. He notices Brandon looking and offers a grin, and it’s fond and wide and goofy in love _(lust,_ Brandon quickly corrects himself) and it would be really fucking obvious if anyone saw. Dubi turns back to his games and PL goes back to his book but they keep glancing up, catching each others’ eye, smirking at each other.

The plane is descending into Chicago when Sonny asks, “The fuck you grinning at?” It’s directed to PL; he hasn’t looked over to see Brandon, yet, having just woken up from his slumber. Dubi quickly slumps back against the seat, pretending to be asleep.

“Just reliving that first goal, man,” PL says, and Brandon’s fucking proud. Smooth, kid, real nice. “That what you were dreaming about, too?”

“We’re gonna get number two tomorrow,” Sonny promises.

~~~~~

Sonny does get goal number two the next day. But nobody else does, and the Chicago Blackhawks pot five against them, so. Not a great game, all around.

The Blackhawks blew out the Penguins, in their season opener, 10-1, and Brandon made sure to let Sid know he was watching (a very dignified _BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA_ text sent to Crosby right after the game ended) and so he expects the text from Sid, although he’s no less irritated when he gets it.

 _What was that, again?_ it says.

 _aint 10 is what it wasn’t,_ he responds back and puts the exchange out of his brain, grumpy.

There’s some loud laughing and talking in the hallway after he finishes dressing, and Brandon wanders out to see what’s going on. A few guys are crowded around Brandon Saad, their ex-teammate that got traded back to the Blackhawks over the summer.

“Saader,” Dubi greets him with a handshake and a fist bump. “Nice to see you, man. Thanks for that hattie against Pittsburgh the other night. Coulda done without that goal tonight, though.”

“Gotta remind you guys what you let go,” Saad smirks and winks. “I think you got a good one in Panarin, though. Looks like he’s gonna be a real asset.”

“Better than you,” Dubi jokes, and Saad knocks into him, playfully.

“We’re gonna go grab a drink with Saader,” Fligs tells Dubi. “Me, Calvy, Jens, Sonny…” Nick lists off a few more names, but the inclusion of _Sonny_ stops Brandon in his tracks. Sonny is PL’s road roommate; Dubi, as a veteran, rooms alone. But if Sonny’s out of the room, that means he can steal Luc to his own room without arousing any suspicion. For a little while, at least.

He likes Saad, but he _really_ likes PL, so it’s a no-brainer.

“Pass tonight, man, sorry. I’m actually kind of feeling shitty,” he lies, and Saad scoffs, wiping his hand on his pants.

“You say that now ya shook my hand, asshole,” he pouts, and Dubi just shrugs, grinning.

“It’s probably not contagious!” he says, cheerfully, as the guys usher him away.

Brandon doesn’t get a chance to talk to PL alone, with the throngs of teammates bustling around, heading towards the team bus, back to the hotel. He jumps on the bus, and Nick pointedly sits elsewhere due to Brandon’s “illness”, leaving Dubi with his own seat. He pulls out his phone.

_yo sonny is goin out drinking tonite. u know what that means?_

The next thing Brandon gets is an eggplant emoji.

 _ill text u my room #,_ he types, feeling a hot rush of anticipation spiking through his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some photos from the Jackets' opening night on the blue carpet!
> 
> [PLD](https://i.imgur.com/xBOFYwr.jpg)  
> [Dubi](https://i.imgur.com/PHYuqFk.jpg)  
> [Dubi's purple polka-dotted tie. Technically this is from 2015 (along with Nick's fashion gaffe) but 2016 photos are hard to find.](https://i.imgur.com/cS4g94x.jpg)


	8. Chapter 8

The knock comes quicker than Brandon expects, when they settle into the hotel. PL’s in the hallway with a huge grin, wearing his Jackets-issued track suit and shifting from foot to foot eagerly. Brandon yanks PL inside before anyone can see him standing there, presses the door shut, and then presses Luc up against it. Luc came by so fast that Dubi doesn’t even have his suit off, although Brandon’s undone his tie and taken off his shoes at least.

“You waited til Sonny left, didn’t you?” Brandon growls, already nipping down PL’s jaw. Luc throws his head back with a husky groan. “Because that’s sort of the point of the whole thing, that he never knows you left the hotel room, so he doesn’t get suspicious.”

“He collected his key, set his shit down, and left in an Uber right away with the boys,” PL sighs, already fumbling with Brandon’s dress shirt. “God, Brandon, you look so hot in that suit. I wanna fuck you so bad.”

“No lube,” Dubi mumbles against the skin of PL’s neck. “But we can - “

“I brought lube.”

Brandon lifts his head from kissing down Luc’s collarbone, eyes bugged out. “You - you fuckin’ _brought_ lube? Really?”

“Is that a good surprised tone I hear, or a bad one?” PL sneaks forward for a quick kiss.

“Not good or bad I guess, just regular surprise, you sneaky fuckin’ bugger you. I didn't even think you _owned_ lube. We always use mine.”

PL drops his voice to a whisper, like he’s revealing a great secret. “Amazon does two day delivery with Prime and they have, like, a _lot_ of lube options.”

Brandon bites PL’s chin, hard enough to draw a surprised squeak from the other man. “Oh, fuck you,” Brandon grins.

“Actually - ...it’s the other way around?”

That draws a sharp laugh from Dubi. That’s _his_ sort of come back, and he’s sort of proud to hear PL say it. “What makes you think I’m gonna let you fuck me? On a game night of all things?”

Luc grabs Brandon’s hips, drags them against his until they’re pressing up against each other. “We don’t practice till late tomorrow, and then our next game isn’t until Tuesday. So I thought, maybe…”

“You want it that bad, huh?”

Instead of answering, PL reaches around, squeezes Brandon’s ass, hard, staring at him with naked desire. He’s breathing a little faster just from thinking about it, Brandon realizes, and that kicks up his breath a notch, too.

“I dunno,” Dubi says, nuzzling PL’s shoulder. “You know I’m loud. How’re you gonna keep me quiet?”

Luc’s grin widens, and he reaches up to press his hand over Brandon’s mouth. “Oh, this is a good look on you, Brandon. I think half the league would agree with me.”

Dubi licks PL’s palm, and as soon as he drops his hand, Brandon mashes his mouth to Luc’s, a sort of agreement to the plan without actually saying yes. “Aw, yeah,” PL mutters into his mouth, excited, and they both finish unbuttoning Brandon’s dress shirt, not breaking the kiss. Luc goes to push the suit jacket off Dubi’s shoulders, but he’s stopped.

“No way you're gonna rumple this suit up and make it _that_ obvious to the boys,” Brandon jokes, stepping back. “Get your perky ass naked, and let me hang this up.”

By the time Brandon is finished undressing, suit jacket and pants carefully hung in the closet, PL is buck naked and hard as a rock, splayed out on the bed, slowly stroking himself, his track suit in a heap on the floor. “Fuck,” Brandon mutters at the sight. It hasn’t gotten old yet. He’s not sure it ever will.

“For you,” PL tells him, cupping his cock, and if Brandon wasn’t hard before he sure is now.

“That’s right, for me,” he growls, pressing PL back into the bed. _“Mine.”_

He’s not sure where this little possessive streak came from, but Luc seems to like it from the way he drags Brandon down for a kiss. They haven’t really talked about whether this whole dating thing means they’re exclusive, and Brandon makes a mental note to do that, later, when they have a few more clothes on. The thought of Luc fucking anyone else pings a sharp spike of anger through him. He pushes it away, lets it transform into lust and need instead.

He bites a pillow and his forearm as PL gets him open, stifling the noises, because Luc can’t finger fuck him and cover his mouth at the same time, not easily anyway. Dubi’s grateful that the hotel didn’t have any king beds, left him with two queens, because this bed is gonna be a mess; Luc still isn’t incredibly efficient at lube, so it drips down Brandon’s balls to the comforter. He lets out a muffled groan when PL finds his prostate, so Luc does it again and again, until Brandon is a gibbering mess on the bed, the pillowcase wet with spit.

_“Crisse,_ you’re so sexy,” PL whispers, watching his fingers plunge in and out. “Are you…?”

Brandon assumes the latter part of that sentence is _ready,_ so he just nods, not trusting himself to speak, thrusting his ass back at Luc.

“Oh, yeah,” Luc is still managing to whisper, albeit a rough, gravely whisper, when he pushes inside. There’s some sort of whispery, exultant French that comes next. Dubi’s not having nearly as much luck with keeping quiet, breathing hard and whining into the pillow, so PL grabs his arm, hauls Brandon up to press against his chest. One arm wraps around Dubi’s waist, the other snakes up his chest so he can press a big palm to Brandon’s mouth, silencing him. “Shhh,” Luc says, and Brandon groans, muffled, into his hand.

Thank God, the bed is not a squeaky one when Luc starts thrusting. Dubi feels a little _helpless;_ he’s on just his knees, pressed firmly back against PL, who has him in place with a strong arm around his waist. Brandon’s head is thrown back against PL’s shoulder, there’s a hand circled around his mouth and he’s being fucked, hard, and it seems almost....submissive, in a way, like he’s not in control. Brandon doesn’t usually like that feeling. But when PL asks, his mouth right next to Brandon’s ear, “You like that?” Well, all he can do is whimper into Luc’s hand and nod.

“Jerk yourself off for me,” Luc whispers, and when Brandon obeys, it’s PL that seems to be having a hard time keeping quiet, now. He buries his face into Dubi’s shoulders, biting down to keep from moaning. Brandon vaguely registers that he’s gonna have marks, but he doesn’t care, not with PL hitting his prostate perfectly and his own hand stroking fast over his cock.

Brandon comes first, this time, a bit of a rarity, arching back against Luc and crying out against his hand, head tipped to the ceiling. Luc follows soon after with another deep bite to Brandon’s shoulders, huffing against the skin there.

“Fuck,” Brandon sighs, when PL finally takes his hand away. He wonders which teammates are in the rooms next to him. They certainly weren’t silent, but he thinks they were quiet enough, that it’ll be okay. With any luck, they’re all out with Saader. “You finally get enough of my ass?” he teases, as PL pulls out, slowly.

“Never,” Luc says, kissing him, and he sounds very firm about that statement. “But...as good as it is. I was thinking, uh, we have two days between our game against the Canes and then against the Rangers, and we’ll be home, so maybe...I could try being on the bottom?”

“Yeah?” Brandon grins, hopping off the bed to find a towel. “You think you’re ready?”

“On that plane ride last night, I kept thinking about you, uh. On top of me. Rocking into me - I mean, slowly, maybe, for my first time - you just seem to love it, and I think I’ll...I think it’ll be... _you’ll_ be good to me. So, uh…”

“I’ll be the fuckin’ _best_ to you, Luc,” Brandon promises, throwing PL a towel and sweeping him up into a kiss. “And I do love it. God, I love when you fuck me.” Brandon hopes PL is gonna feel the same, about bottoming, is gonna make _sure_ he does, but hell, if he only wants to try it once or twice...well, Brandon can live the rest of his days with PL’s dick inside him. He’s pretty fucking okay with the thought of that.

~~~~~

Brandon’s feeling pretty good about that hotel sex, starting to think that maybe this could work out. PL was back before Sonny returned; they were quiet enough during sex that teammates nearby didn’t suspect anything. It still wasn’t ideal, and they still wouldn’t be able to do it every road game for sure. But it could be done discreetly, they proved that. So Brandon’s feeling great as they land in Carolina and go to work.

Until the end of practice. The shower is filling up as guys wander in, and voices echo loud off the tiles, laughing and talking. Brandon turns away from chirping Josh Anderson about having to play with his dumb ass the next game, lifting his face up to the hot water, when Andy whistles sharply.

“Holy fuck, Dubi, you have some fun last night?”

The guys pause as they turn to check out the marks on Brandon’s skin; he whirls around, putting his back to the shower wall as the room explodes in laughter.

“Didn’t wanna come out with Saader because he’s _‘sick’,”_ Boone snorts, flicking shampoo in Dubi’s direction. “Sick with the pussy flu, maybe. I can’t believe you’re choosing a hook up over your boys!”

“I’m gonna choose pussy over you dipshits _every_ time,” Josh points out. Brandon relaxes a little; just normal chirping from the guys, nothing to get worked up over. But then he sees Zach Werenski, in the corner. Z’s a quiet guy normally, but he’s smart as fuck, and Dubi can see the wheels turning in his brain, the confused frown on his face.

“Hold up,” he says. “Those hickies...they’re on your _back…?”_

Oh, fuck you, Z.

The room pauses as the guys process this new information, and Brandon can see, like a row of light bulbs turning on, the boys starting to get it. To understand the implication of that. Normally Brandon is quick as hell with a clap back, a timely chirp, a response, but his brain is blank, and it doesn’t help that he can see PL, out of the corner of his eye, looking distressed and quite frankly obvious. The silence is just about to stretch to an uncomfortable level, so Brandon opens his mouth. He’ll think of _something -_

“Jesus, Z,” Nick pipes up, suddenly. “I don’t know what sort of vanilla-ass sex you’re having, but if you think _that’s_ weird, I have some porn to show you that’s gonna blow your fuckin’ mind. I found a hickey on my ankle once, of all places.”

“Oh shit, I once got a hickey on my _ass,”_ Josh tells the group. “Like, she’s down there blowing me, and I had my feet up on the coffee table, and suddenly she just bites my fuckin’ ass! Like, bitch, that’s not sexy!”

The room laughs, and suddenly there’s a competition about the weirdest places everyone’s found a hickey or a bruise. Brandon doesn’t visibly show any signs of relief, but inside his gut is uncurling from the sick twists it’s found itself in. He catches Nick’s eye, across the room, and Fligs just gives him the smallest, faintest smile and the briefest eyebrow quirk before turning back to his shower.

Brandon’s gonna owe Nicky a really good dinner after this. He’s the best captain in the fucking _world._

~~~~~

Brandon makes good on that thought the next day, and takes Nick to The Angus Barn. The place is stuffed to the gills with people, but Raleigh’s still not a big hockey town, and neither man has quite ascended into the stratosphere where they’d be recognized by non-hockey fans, or hell, even non-Jackets fans most of the time. So nobody bothers them, and it’s loud enough to talk without really being overheard, voices blending in to the din. They both order a huge amount of dead cow and Dubi insists Nick gets a lobster tail to go with it, and he also orders them a very expensive bottle of wine.

“Gotta do something with that five-point-eight-five, right?” Nick smirks, clinking glasses with Brandon.

“Tonight, man, you can have anything you want. The world is your oyster. Fuck, get the oysters, that’s a great idea. I _owe_ you.”

Fligs waves his hand, like he’s waving away the thought. “I was just doing what any captain would do. What any _friend_ would do.” He chuckles, then, drumming his fingers on his wine glass. “I was surprised, though. You’re not usually that...sloppy. He was a good one, huh? Wait...it wasn’t a _Blackhawk_ , was it? Holy - “

“Nope,” Brandon cuts that thought off at the pass. “Not a Blackhawk. All those horse faces? Please.”

Nick lowers his voice. “Don’t give me that. Pretty sure I, as a straight man, would fuck Patrick Sharp.”

Brandon lowers his voice to match. “Well then, Nicky, you’re probably not as straight as you might like to think, eh?”

Both men laugh, but Nick looks serious, suddenly, and Brandon is slightly concerned by his expression. “Fligs, what?”

“Well...I do have some bad news, maybe. Thing is, I was next to PL - “

The concern spikes in Dubi’s chest. He doesn’t show it, keeps his face neutral.

“ - and I think, I mean I’m _pretty sure - “_

Oh God, here it comes.

“ - that he knows your secret.”

Brandon nearly laughs in Fliggy’s face. Instead, keeping his expression tight, he asks, “Why do you say that?”

“He was standing next to me, in the showers, when Z pointed out your back. He let out this scandalized sort of gasp and he had this...man, you should have seen the expression on his face. Just this real, _oh shiiiiit_ kind of realization.” Nick takes a sip of his wine, shrugging. “But, hey, he’s a rookie. He’s in no place to give you shit, I’ll make sure of it. If anything happens - “

“Fliggy, he’s nineteen. I can take care of it. Besides, how do we even know he’s disapproving?”

“I don’t. Just saying. You promise you’ll tell me if anything comes up?”

Well, Brandon’s gonna have to lie, now, but the lie slips out easily. He’s been lying since he was fourteen and realized he just jerked off to the daydream of he and his liney humping in the showers. “I can definitely handle it, but yes, I promise to tell Daddy if the rookie hurts my feelings.”

Nick offers an elaborate eye roll. “See what I get for offering to help you. And please never call me _Daddy_ again.”

“Sure thing, Papa.”

Nick kicks him, under the table. Hard.


	9. Chapter 9

The Carolina game is the Sonny Milano show, two goals in a 2-1 win, so PL passes the kepi over to him and the press descends. The attention is mostly on Sonny’s side of the room, so Brandon and PL are able to get dressed without the press stuck between them as they usually are. It’s an intriguing dance; they can’t be obviously into each other, but their eyes keep meeting, for brief moments as they button dress pants and slip on suit jackets and knot ties. At one point, Brandon turns towards his locker, putting his foot up on the stall to tie his shoes. PL does the same, so their backs are turned towards the team; they both glance over at each other, and Luc runs his tongue along his bottom lip. It’s not even meant to be a sensual tease, he’s just wetting his mouth, but Brandon has to turn away quickly so he doesn’t get a fucking chub, like he’s still a teenager popping boners at the dumbest shit.

The knowledge that he’s gonna get to fuck PL when they get back to Columbus makes the plane ride from Carolina pretty rough. Adrenaline from the game seeps through Brandon’s pores, mixing with the anticipation of being inside Luc, and it doesn’t let him sleep or even really concentrate on anything. He finds himself staring at his iPad, not really able to pay attention to anything. The zombies eat his plants, again and again, so he shuts down the game and pulls out some headphones, blasting house music while he stares out the window into the darkness and thinks of all the noises Luc is gonna make underneath him.

The worst part about it is, they get back late, too late to do anything but go to sleep. They have practice tomorrow, although it’s not till late morning to accommodate the travel plans, and Brandon isn’t _sleepy_ but he’s _tired._ Exhausted from being so amped up these last few hours, and playing almost 20 minutes against Carolina.

He offers only a small, discreet smile in PL’s direction - it’s returned - as they exit the plane and then he’s on the road towards his apartment. Surprisingly, he’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

~~~~~

Practice the next day _sucks,_ although Torts seems pleased with Brandon, because he’s crashing and banging around hard, flying high at the thought of what’s to come. He tries not to look too pissed when the Jackets Foundation crew pulls him aside afterwards and reminds him that it’s his day to sign shit for charity.

He’s trying to figure out the best place to sign his gloves - there’s a big, dark puck smudge where he usually signs them - when his phone buzzes. _When you gonna be done?_

_fuck if i know,_ he replies, frustrated. _soonish._

He signs everything - gloves, pictures, mini sticks, his game-worn skates (Really? Brandon’s not sure who the fuck would want these, but whatever). He’s mostly daydreaming about Luc while he signs, although one of his requested signatures is on a photo of him and Crosby, with Brandon’s arms raised, celebrating a goal, and it makes him chuckle. He signs and then takes a picture of it, just in case. You never know when that shit will come in handy.

He’s a bundle of nervous energy by the time he gets done signing. He says goodbye to Ryan Murray - the day’s other victim for signing autographs - and texts PL. _be @ my place asap._

Dubi gets a dick pic in return, and this time it doesn’t even phase him. He’s alone in his car when it comes through so he’s into it, PL half-hard, long fingers gently cupped around the length. _SOON_ he texts back, and tries not to get a speeding ticket on his way back to his apartment.

Luc isn’t there when Dubi gets in. Which, of course not; he’s probably leaving from Savy’s house, and David lives in the suburbs. He’s a family man, with the big house on a golf course, which means PL has a 20 minute drive compared to Brandon’s 5 minute drive. Dubi cracks a beer open and throws on some music and fucks around with his phone, impatient.

Sure enough, there’s a loud knock about fifteen minutes later. Dubi unlocks the door and takes a huge step backwards, because as soon as he gets his hands on Luc, he’s going to kiss him, and it would be a poor idea to do so when the door’s open.

PL is sort of red and flushed when he walks in the door, and Brandon barks for him to close it - he does - then yanks him in for a kiss. “You drive all the way here with this?” Dubi asks, pressing his palm between PL’s thighs. He’s still chubbed up, and he tilts his hips into Brandon’s hand, offering a crooked grin.

“Just. It’s been hard not to think of this. Of you,” Luc tells him, kissing him again, and Brandon’s sort of can’t believe how terribly excited he still is over this kid. The shit PL can do to him with just one meaningful look, or an impish little grin, should be fucking illegal.

“C’mon,” Brandon breaks the kiss and urges PL towards the bedroom with a gentle yank on his wrist, and suddenly the two are tumbling down the hall, sort of racing each other without actually breaking into a run. To anyone else, it might have looked like two drunk men stumbling and bumping into each other, complete with giggling and laughter. PL gets to the bedroom first, dives on the bed, and then Dubi’s on top of him, landing hard with an _oof,_ right on his back. Luc lets him stay there, getting squished into the bed.

“Luc,” Dubi breathes into his ear. “Tell me. When you’re fantasizing about this, jerking off to it...what do you see, huh? Like this, you on your stomach, or your knees, with me on top? Or are we facing each other? Or maybe you’re riding me?” Brandon grazes the shell of his ear with his mouth, licks it, feels the other man shudder underneath him. “Tell me your fantasy, and let me make it happen,” he says, wrenching another shiver from PL.

“I want - “ Luc’s voice cracks, and he wets his mouth, tries again. “I wanna see you, when you, uh. When you’re inside me. Watch you - ...watch your face while you fuck me. I want to hook my legs on your shoulders and have you go slow until I’m begging you to let me come, and then you jerk me off and then you finish inside me. Uh, so. Yeah.” PL seems almost embarrassed by it, the filthy description of what he wants. He’s redder than before. Dubi finds it so endearing, and so, so hot.

“Mmmm,” Dubi moans, like he’s just eaten the most satisfying thing in the world. “Oh, yeah. I know why you want that. You wanna watch my face when I first push inside you because I’m gonna be fuckin’ _wrecked,_ Luc, it’s gonna take every ounce of me not to lose self-control.” He’s sort of grinding down against PL’s ass, now, fingertips dipping into the waistband of his sweatpants. “I won’t, baby, but holy fuck it’s gonna be tough.”

Dubi slides off the bed, off of Luc, and PL starts to flip over, but Brandon stops that with a firm hand on the small of his back. “Stay on your belly,” he commands, snagging PL’s hips and pulling until he’s half off the bed, legs on the floor.

“What - “

Dubi shuts him up by yanking his sweatpants and his underwear down on one smooth motion, letting them puddle at his feet. He can hear PL start to ask, again, what he’s planning, and the only sound out of this kid’s mouth he wants to hear right now is moaning, or maybe Brandon’s name screamed over and over again, so he sinks to his knees and buries his face in between his thighs. Sure enough, the second his tongue flits wetly over PL’s hole, any questions he had dies in his throat, replaced by a husky, surprised groan.

Brandon isn’t sure how long he rims PL, but he doesn’t get sick of it, listening to Luc’s whimpered cries, muffled by the bed sheets. He deliberately doesn’t touch PL’s cock, slaps Luc’s hand away when he reaches down for it. “Not yet,” he growls, and PL makes a broken sort of frustrated noise that goes right to Dubi’s dick. By now, his beard is damp through with spit, Luc’s cheeks and thighs glistening with the stuff, so he figures it’s time to keep going, as much as he enjoyed eating PL out.

“On the bed, on your back,” Dubi says, swiping his forearm along his chin to try and dry it just a little bit. PL obeys immediately, breath kicking up a notch as Brandon approaches with the lube, knees held up to his chest.

“Slow,” Luc tells him, as if he needs to be reminded.

“We don’t do anything till you’re ready for it,” Brandon promises, and gets a generous squirt of lube along his fingers. Luc’s hole is already wet, dripping with his spit, but he coats it with lube as well, running his thumb in a circle until PL makes a little groan. “You ready for more?”

“Yeah, uh huh.”

Brandon mostly wanted PL on his back so he can watch his face as he pushes a finger inside him. There’s a flicker of - something, nervousness or pain or discomfort. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just. Feels a little weird,” PL tells him, grinning crookedly. “Like it’s - I dunno how to describe it.”

“Like you got a finger up your ass.”

“Well - “ PL rolls his eyes with a laugh, fondly annoyed. “Yeah.”

“Uh huh, so now what if I do…this.” Brandon twists his hand around, so when he curls his finger, it brushes against Luc’s prostate. And that, _that_ does the trick, his face goes from a little anxious to a slack-jawed gasp, blinking dumbly at Brandon like he can’t believe what just happened. “Oooh, you like that, huh, don’tcha? You want more?”

PL nods, so Brandon drags his finger alongside it as he withdraws his finger. Luc makes an indignant noise. “Why - “

“Second finger, more lube,” Dubi says, kissing PL’s hip. Luc grabs his head, trying to nudge him over towards his cock, but Brandon just laughs, twisting out of his fingers.

“How _rude,”_ he admonishes, playfully, as he gets the second finger inside, and PL’s not in much of a position to talk back now, based on the expression on his face. “You just sit back and be patient, rookie.”

PL sighs. “Fuck patience. Can I…?” He sneaks one hand down to his dick, obviously remembering before when Brandon smacked his hand away.

“Oh, I like when you ask me permission to touch yourself,” Dubi purrs. “Yeah. Stroke yourself while I get you open, Luc, but if you come, I’ll be _very_ disappointed.”

“I won’t,” PL promises, sighing loudly with relief as he gets a hand down there. He jerks himself in slow, unhurried strokes as Brandon pumps two fingers into him, and now it’s Dubi that’s having a tough time not touching himself.

He adds a third finger, and after a long moment of feeling like somebody is pulling on his guts for how anxious he is over the whole thing, Brandon asks, “How do you feel?” PL looks like he’s enjoying the hell out of it - no weird faces like before, although he’s biting his lip hard. But he has to be sure. He doesn’t want there to be any pain.

“I think...think I’m ready as I’ll ever be?” It’s a question, but not one Brandon can answer for him.

“You’re sure?”

Luc’s smile softens, and he makes a come-here gesture towards Dubi. “Brandon, c’mon. Want you so bad.”

The feeling is mutual; Dubi gently pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the bedspread (he’s done so much goddamn laundry, lately) and climbs on top of PL, who welcomes him with open arms. They kiss for a long moment, not really like most kissing Brandon has done over the years, which has always been sloppy and demanding. This kiss is soft. Tender, yearning, all those adjectives that Brandon has always rolled his eyes to, because he always thought he only really liked sex hard and rough, but Luc is teaching him otherwise. He wants to go slow this time. Brandon doesn’t want to _fuck_ Luc, he wants to _make love_ to him, and he slides a hand up PL’s jaw, cups his face sweetly.

“I - “ he murmurs as the kiss breaks, and he doesn’t know what to say. He’s not nearly ready for _I love you_ but _I’m fond as fuck about you_ doesn’t really sound right, either. “God, you’re fuckin’ great,” he chooses, instead.

PL giggles against his mouth. “So, uh, you gonna…?”

Shit, Brandon isn’t even _inside_ Luc yet, has just been making out with him, his dick pressed hard against PL’s thigh. “Oh. You, uh, ready?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Okay.” Brandon’s a little nervous, which is dumb, but - he just wants this to be really, really good for Luc. Even if he eventually decides he prefers topping, he just doesn’t want to hurt PL at all. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, pressing against PL’s entrance. “And relax. And, you know, bear down. Open up for me, huh, baby?”

Luc nods, takes a deep breath, and Brandon watches his face carefully as he slides inside, slow, so fucking slowly. He can’t help the strangled little _oh_ as he carefully bottoms out, searching PL’s expression for pain. “How, uh, how is - ?”

Instead of answering, Luc pulls him down for another one of those kisses, slow and sweet. Dubi stays unmoving, buried to the hilt inside while they kiss until he can’t stand it anymore. “Please,” he whispers against PL’s mouth, gets an approving nod from the other man.

Both men groan through the first few thrusts. Brandon can’t believe how _good_ Luc feels. Yeah, sure, there’s always been that sort of mythical tight virgin thing, but holy fuck, maybe it’s true. PL wraps his legs around Brandon’s back, and Dubi suddenly remembers he wanted his legs on Brandon’s shoulders, but - maybe next time. If they’re up there, Brandon can’t kiss Luc, and they can’t seem to stop kissing for more than a few seconds.

Brandon gets a hand between them, stroking Luc, but between the kissing and the thrusting he’s having problems with the rhythm. “Help me,” he murmurs against PL’s mouth, and Luc’s hand circles on top of his and now they’re both jerking him off, together. PL knows the exact speed he likes, so Brandon can tell he’s getting close, because he keeps whimpering into the kiss, his mouth going slack as his brain cells get overloaded.

“Brandon,” PL groans, and oh yeah, there’s his _name_ out of PL’s mouth and he’s so into it. “God, Brandon - “ he switches to French, but Dubi still recognizes his name in the garble of the foreign language. Fuck, yeah.

He doesn’t make any sort of showy, loud noises when he comes, just spills wetly along Brandon’s knuckles and down his thumb. But his face, Dubi _loves_ the face he makes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, looking stunned, relieved, exultant all at the same time.

“So good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to Luc’s. “So good for me.”

“You gonna come?” Luc asks, breathless, and Brandon nods; he’s close, PL’s orgasm yanking him towards his own.

Luc kisses him again as he tips over the edge, and he clings to PL for dear life, hips stuttering, moaning in the younger man’s mouth as he rides out his orgasm. “So good,” Luc echoes his words from earlier, and he nuzzles his nose against Brandon’s and they both laugh, softly. Brandon is sweaty, now, his chest sealed to Luc’s through perspiration. Which, despite what porn always led him to believe, is sort of a gross feeling, but here, now, he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“That was fucking amazing, Luc,” Dubi tells him, softly, and their noses are still pressed together, staring at each other and grinning like absolute idiots. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” PL tells him, and Brandon’s can’t detect any sort of insincerity or sarcasm there. Dubi can’t stop smiling, not that he tries too hard.

They kiss again, and Brandon figures it’s only a matter of time now that he actually is gonna fall in love with this kid, God fucking help him.

~~~~~

They win against the Rangers, and then they’re on a plane to Minnesota because they have _another_ home-and-away back to back.

“Who the _fuck_ made this schedule,” Dubi barks as he stalks down the plane aisle, leading to a few mumbled agreements from the guys already on board. Nick smirks at him, already getting up from his aisle seat to let Brandon into the window.

“Hey, Mister 700,” he addresses Nick, going to pinch his cheek, but Fliggy ducks out of the way and smacks him upside the head before he can. Foligno’s just played his 700th game of his career, and the guys have been giving him shit about it all game. _Old man. Grey beard. Need a cane there, Grandpa?_ Dubi is happy to join in the playful chirping. He played his 700th at the end of last season, and got endless shit for it, and by God he’s gonna pass that joy along.

“Okay, Mister...705 or whatever the hell it is,” Nick chirps back.

“God you’re fucking old,” Brandon continues, as if he Nick hadn’t said anything, sliding into his seat and throwing his bag underneath.

PL and Sonny end up right across the aisle again, and Brandon can’t stop grinning. There’s no seat assignments on the team plane, but guys are superstitious. He and Nick always sit in the same place every time. A couple of the new boys, like Sonny and PL, are still sorting out where exactly they are going to be sitting, but it looks like it’s gonna be right next to Dubi and Nick. Give it one more game and Brandon knows that will be “their” spot. Which is awesome.

The plane takes off and Nick is starting to fall asleep, but Brandon nudges him before he can, voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Hey,” he whispers, and Nick gives him a glare. It’s a playfully fond glare, but a glare nonetheless; he knows what’s coming.

“Is your brother playing tomorrow?” Brandon whispers, trying not to fall apart laughing at Nick’s sigh of frustration. Dubi _delights_ in pretending to try and pick up Nick’s brother, Marcus, who is currently playing for the Wild. He doesn’t even remember how it got started, but it’s a thing now, along with pointing out how much hotter Marcus is. It’s the only gay teasing that Brandon really gives Nick, because God knows Dubi has to hear _some_ sort of quip about Crosby every time they go into Pittsburgh. Marcus isn’t even gay (probably, Brandon thinks) but the look on Nick’s face makes him laugh until he can’t breathe, so he jokes about it every time.

“He’s injured,” Nick hisses, rolling his eyes.

Brandon pauses, leaning closer. “Does he need someone to make him feel better?”

Nick puts him in a headlock and slaps him along his head and torso as they both laugh, and it keeps going until Cam leans over the seat, from behind, snorting in disbelief. “Whoa, what’s happening here? Fliggy, did Dubi touch you in the bad place?”

“Cammer,” Dubi huffs, out of breath from laughing and struggling, “If I’m touching anyone in the bad place it’s gonna be you. Come on, short stuff, you wanna sit in my lap?”

Cam bats his eyes at Dubi. “Maybe next time, darling,” he says, sitting back down.

As they settle down, Brandon sees PL watching the scene with interest. Which is good, he figures. Because maybe he’ll realize now, if the team knew he was gay, they wouldn’t all be as magnanimous as Nick. Those gay-tinged jokes about ‘touching in the bad place’ or ‘sitting on his lap’, or the playful wrestling and platonic touching with teammates, well, they’d be _gone_ with most of the boys, too awkward, too close to real life. His entire relationship with everyone would change, and probably not for the better. 

He’s always chosen his friendships, his team, over his love life. But he catches PL’s eye and feels conflicted, for the first time. He wants both.

But he just can’t see how.


	10. Chapter 10

They win in OT against the Wild, then it’s off to Winnipeg the next day. After practice, Dubi joins a bunch of guys out at a bar to watch football. He’s a huge Chiefs fan, and they’re playing Pittsburgh today. Before the kickoff Josh Anderson slides up next to him with a huge grin.

“Yo, you want another round, same bet as last year?”

Josh is a Steelers fan (ugh, _why_ ) and last year they’d made a bet that if the Steelers beat the Chiefs, Brandon would have to wear a Pittsburgh hat for post-game interviews, and vice versa. He lost the bet last year, but this year it’ll be different. The Chiefs are undefeated so far.

“Fuckin’ bring it,” Brandon tells him, already pleasantly buzzed. “Fuck the Steelers. I got a great Chiefs hat for you to wear this time, Andy.”

He loses again; the Chiefs have a chance, at the end of the game, but they blow it. He chugs the rest of his beer and tries not to be a sore loser and punch Josh Anderson in his stupid fucking face as he’s taunted all to hell.

“Fuck this, fuck you, fuck football,” he grumbles, tossing down enough money to cover his beers and a tip. He flips off Josh Anderson before he leaves and the rest of the boys howl in laughter at how grumpy he is.

He takes an Uber back to the hotel and along the way, texts PL. _yo wyd?_

He’s almost back to the team hotel when his phone buzzes again. _Napping. Your Chiefs win?_

_fuuuuuck football_

_So that’s a no_

_come cheer me up rm 312 be there in like 15 min_

Brandon’s still a ball of restless, annoyed energy, but the blowjob that PL offers helps a lot in calming him down. He’s relaxed enough afterwards to offer to reciprocate, and his stomach jumps a little with how eagerly Luc accepts.

Halfway through the blowjob, there’s a pounding on the door, and Josh Anderson’s distinct voice comes floating through the room. “I got your hat, dumbfuck! Open up!”

Brandon spits out PL’s cock and they stare at each other, eyes wide. “Shhh,” he whispers to Luc, then, louder, “Fuck off, Andy! Go away!”

“The front desk gave me your key, so open up or I’m coming in!”

 _SHIT._ Luc’s scrambling off the bed before Brandon can even say anything, but he hisses, “Get in the closet,” and dives on the floor for his shorts. If it were any other situation, Brandon would find it somewhat amusing to tell Luc to get in the closet, but right now he’s on the edge of panic. “Fucking _wait,”_ he hollers back to Josh. “I’m naked.”

“I see you naked all the time. Come on!”

“Goddamnit,” he growls, yanking on his shorts and shirt and stalking over to the door, throwing it open with a snarl. Josh laughs, long and hard, at the expression on Dubi’s face, and tries to push inside, but Brandon stops him.

“How the _fuck_ did the front desk give you my key?”

“Oh, they didn’t,” Andy grins. “I was just fucking with you. Hey - “ he pulls a Steelers hat out from behind his back, pops it on Brandon’s head. “Lookie, perfect!”

Dubi doesn’t say anything, because he’s afraid exactly what he might say to this large man-child standing in front of him. Instead, he just glares. Josh finally picks up on his red face, ruddy features, out of breath panting and his eyes go wide. “Do you have someone in there?” He stands on his tiptoes, peeking into the room.

“If you must know, I was jerking off,” Brandon says through grit teeth, because he sure as hell isn’t going to admit to anyone being in the room. If Dubi lies and says he has a lady in with him, knowing Josh, he’ll wait around just to see what she looks like. That would be a fucking disaster. “What, you wanna fucking join me or something, Andy? Jesus Christ.”

Josh makes a disgusted face, but he’s smirking. “Spanking it after the Steelers spanked your Chiefs, I get it. Gotta calm down somehow. You keep that hat, wear it after the Jets game, huh?”

Brandon starts to close the door. _“Bye,_ Andy.”

Josh stops it with his foot, half-closed, peeking in. “After the Jets game?”

“Yeah, yeah, got it, fucking Christ. I will, I promise. Now get the fuck out.”

“Ooh, you gotta go finish - “ The door shuts on Josh’s face before he can finish his sentence, but Brandon can still hear him laughing in the hallway and something muffled about _stroking it._

PL is emerging from the closet when Dubi turns away from the now-closed door, and he takes the offending hat from his head and flings it as hard as he can. It hits the window with a dull, loud _thump_ and lands on the floor. “Fuckin’ asshole,” he mutters. “Sorry, Luc. Did you wanna, uh, continue…?” PL’s not hard, anymore. Not really a surprise.

Luc just shrugs. “Nah, I’m good. Maybe we can just hang out for a little bit, watch something?”

“Oh, hang out. You mean cuddle?” Dubi pinches the waistband of his shorts - Luc is still nude. “Naked cuddling?”

PL chuckles, flopping down on the bed. “Is there any other kind?”

Once Brandon’s back naked and situated on the bed, he hands over his iPad and lets Luc swipe through his Netflix account. Luc is on his back and Dubi curls against his side, head on his shoulder; he sighs, feeling the tension unwinding, slowly, slowly. As soon as he decides on a movie, PL tucks his now-free arm tight around Dubi’s waist, leans down and softly kisses the top of his head as the opening rolls.

Being here, in PL’s arms, warm skin on skin, it’s almost enough to make Brandon forget about the Chiefs and stupid Josh Anderson.

_Almost._

~~~~~

Luc’s family comes into town, the next day, to catch the Winnipeg game. They don’t live too far off and Brandon knows it’s still a thrill to watch their son realize his dream. He remembers the first few times his family saw him play, the look on his mother’s face, his brother looking so fucking proud he was gonna burst.

So PL’s off at his family dinner, and Brandon eats with Atkinson and Calvert and talks about the stupid shit they did a few years ago when they all went on vacation together, and how they should really do it again sometime.

“Hey, it’s tough, when you got kids, to get away on vacation without the family when your entire job leaves you out of town half the time,” Matt complains. “The missus isn’t too happy about it, you know? Especially now, with her pregnant. Cam, you'll see that soon, eh?”

Cam laughs, holds up his hands. “Slow your roll, Matty, she's only _just_ pregnant. We've still got some time.”

Matt’s eyes light up. “You’ll love kids. Your first is _so_ exciting,” he gushes, and Brandon can feel his eyes sort of glaze over. It’s not that he doesn’t want kids - he’d always thought that would be pretty cool. It’s just, he _can’t._ If a serious relationship isn’t in the cards, well, kids sure as fuck are off the table.

“ - unlike mister unrepentant bachelor here,” Calvert is finishing off a sentence that Brandon has totally missed, but he’s the only bachelor at the table so he figures Matt must have been talking about him.

“Sorry, what? I zoned out.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “I said, I bet Cam is gonna have a couple kids. Like me, right? But you, man, if you want kids - do you even? - you’re gonna need to stop playing the field and actually settle down.”

“Doubt it,” Cam smirks. “What’s that you told me, Dubi, ‘what good is fame if you’re not fucking models?’”

“Well, first off, that _is_ true, and I probably said it, but that’s from a Nelly song and the actual line is ‘what good is all the fame if you ain’t fucking the models,’ so get that shit right.” He smirks as the boys laugh; Cam suddenly remembers the song, hums a bar or two of it. “I dunno, I just haven’t...found the right girl yet?” Fuck, he hates these conversations. They come easily, now, without the vague side of nausea they used to bring early in his career. Still, he hates it.

“Maybe if you actually took the time to learn the girls’ names you bang, you might find someone,” Cam points out.

Sometimes, Dubi can’t believe that they accept his stories as true. Brandon tells them a lot of grandiose tales about his sex life, pretty much all of which are fake. He’ll pick up occasionally in front of the boys, to keep up appearances, and sometimes he takes the girls to another bar to ‘get a last drink’ and then he just ghosts on them. If he can’t manage to do that, he takes them home, apologizes for ‘getting too drunk to fuck’ and will just eat them out and use his fingers. He’s learned to do that without gagging, even though he hates every second of it. Based on the reactions of the women he takes home, he seems to be pretty fucking good at it, at least.

But lying still makes him a little paranoid. He waves Cam away with a scoff. “How the fuck am I getting lectured about my love life? Weren’t we talking about the Caribbean and going back there? Let’s get back to _that.”_

By the time dinner ends and they get back to the hotel, they’ve made tentative plans for vacation again.

Calvert heads to his room pretty much immediately, but Brandon and Cam end up in the hotel bar, squeezed together on a couch, flipping through vacation properties in Curacao and the British Virgin Islands. It’s really too early for this - vacation is hopefully a _long_ ways away - but here in Winnipeg, in late October, it’s nice to dream about sandy beaches and sunny days.

“Shit, I think this is a swingers’ resort,” Cam laughs at one of the all-inclusives he’s checking out on his phone.

“Savin’ that one for later, huh?” Brandon nudges him in the side, and Cam looks at him and giggles. And here, four drinks in, Dubi gets that sort of familiar longing.

He’s had crushes on plenty of teammates, of course. Cam was an easy one to fall for. Good looking guy, easy smile and laugh, laid back but intense on the ice. Mostly, he’s a perfect foil for Brandon, who’s intense just about everywhere. Cam calms him down and makes him laugh. He loves Cam, and it’s in that deep friendship best-buds sort of way, the crush long gotten over, although he does admit if Cam ever came out as gay he’d jump on that opportunity immediately.

But he’s not gay. He married his now-wife this summer, and Brandon was a groomsman, and she’s wonderful, and the whole wedding was wonderful, and Dubi barely admits to himself that he had sort of an existential crisis that day, seeing Cam’s face as he watched his bride walking down the aisle, the pure _joy,_ and wondering if he’d ever get the same thing.

PL would probably be super into wedding planning.

And holy fuck, that’s the dumbest, most premature thing Brandon’s ever thought in his _life,_ he doesn’t even love this kid yet and he’s thinking about wedding and marriage? But here, looking at Cam’s grin, Dubi remembers that same pleased smile during his wedding day and just - wants.

Someday.

So when Luc’s face pops into view suddenly, Brandon’s not totally sure it isn’t some weird mind fuck or mirage. Only when Cam tilts his chin at Luc, gives a little wave and a, “yo, PL,” does he realize, nope, here’s Luc, live and in front of them.

“Hey guys,” PL strides up with a wave. “Was just comin’ back from dinner, saw you two in here having a drink. Not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nah,” Brandon says, offering a small, polite smile for appearances. “How’s the fam?”

“Oh, uh - great. Always really nice to see them.”

“So you’re gonna have a kick ass game tomorrow then, if your family’s in town,” Cam says, scrolling through the texts on his phone. “Trust me, man. Always happens. Well...either that or a really shitty game. There’s basically no in-between. You either score a goal or make a dumbass play.”

Brandon elbows Cam in the side. “Scare the kid, why don’tcha.”

“Just spittin’ some truth,” he says. “Hey, I’m gonna head back to my room. Nat wants to talk a little.”

“‘Talk,’” Brandon says, in air quotes, with a lewd voice, and Cam winks.

“Well, you know, been three days since I’ve seen her, she misses me. Gotta keep her happy. Dubi, pick my tab up for me, thanks. Night, boys,” Cam heads off with a wave.

Brandon offers a crude retort at Atkinson’s back over picking up his tab, then pauses and stares at PL, pondering for a moment, before indicating the now-vacant spot next to him. It’s a little risky, if they’re seen hanging out more than the typical amount. Guys like Dubi don’t usually befriend rookies. But it’s late, and Brandon is four drinks deep so he’s feeling slightly more relaxed.

“Hey, you,” Brandon purrs, getting close enough that his breath is tickling PL’s ear, and he feels Luc shudder a little and watches that same ear turn reddish with a blush. “Missed you.”

PL grins, glancing over at Brandon. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.” Brandon sits back, takes a quick glance around. There’s nobody really within earshot, but he keeps his body language a little formal, like they’re two coworkers instead of lovers, if anyone is watching them. His words stand out in sharp contrast, keeping them quiet as he murmurs, “The scotch I had for dessert was good, but not as good as your dick in my mouth would have been.”

Luc’s eyes go wide and he takes a quick glance around, to see who’s close, and Brandon mutters, “Keep it cool, man.”

“Uh…” PL stutters for a second before he ‘gets it’, affecting the same body language as Dubi, friendly but formal, leaned away from him. He smirks, now, like he’s sharing some big secret with Brandon, pretending to be just buddies but whispering filth to each other in a public place. His voice is low, too, when he talks next. “You’ll get it soon, you...you, uh, _cock slut.”_

He pauses before he spits out the last two words which are practically a whisper, like talking dirty is embarrassing, and Brandon finds it so fucking endearing. He wishes he could jump PL right here and now, crawl into his lap and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

“Promises, promises,” Brandon tells him, picking up his glass of wine and taking a sip. It’s almost empty, and he shouldn’t have another. Neither should he bring PL back to his room. Both options are so, so tempting. Instead, he continues, “So, I gotta ask. This thing, you know, _the thing._ Are we...is this...an exclusive kind of thing?”

PL frowns, now. “Well, yeah, I - ...is there someone else?” He looks a little scared, at that possibility.

“Oh fuck, no, not on my end. But I just wanted to be sure. That we’re. Y’know.” _Exclusive. Boyfriends._ Brandon doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t think he needs to.

“I’m cool with that if you are.”

“Oh, yeah.” Brandon nods, and PL’s grin is back. He bites his lower lip, looking thrilled at the official sort of pronouncement that they’re a _thing,_ together, exclusively together.

 _I love you,_ Brandon wants to blurt out, like this is middle school, when you started dating at the beginning of the school day and by the end you were _in love_ and drawing hearts around each other’s initials and you were sure you were gonna be together forever and you were already dreaming of the wedding. Well, Brandon never really felt like that towards any of the girls he was dating, but they sure as fuck did.

Anyway, he knows that’s stupid. He’s more in love with the _idea_ of love, probably, of having an actual honest-to-god boyfriend and starting to think maybe, _just maybe,_ he can have all those things his straight teammates have, that happy-ever-after.

It’s way too early to start thinking about it with PL, but it’s hard, because Brandon has dreamt of that shit fruitlessly for ten years now, and this is the first time he’s realized that it might be possible, and he’s clinging onto Luc like a drowning man given a life raft. It’s not fair to PL, so he’s gonna wait, make sure he really is in love before he says anything.

But he’s antsy for it. They’re gonna fall in love, and he’s gonna tell Luc, one day after making love to him on an off day, brush their mouths together and whisper, “I love you,” and PL is gonna squeak with surprised joy and cling to him and say, “Fuck, Brandon, _I love you too,”_ and then they’re gonna fuck again and make plans for Luc to get an apartment in his same complex. Luc’s never gonna be there, he’ll always be over at Brandon’s place, and they’re gonna fall asleep together in the same bed, wake up together. Brandon is gonna surprise him sometimes with little gifts which will make PL blush with pleasure and they’ll go on a secret vacation together, just the two of them, no pictures but that’ll be okay, and they’ll lay on the beach on their vacation house and hold hands while the sun sets and - 

Luc clicks his fingers in front of Brandon’s face, snapping him out of it. “Huh?”

PL just laughs. “Never mind. I was telling you a story about dinner, but I guess it wasn’t _that_ interesting.”

“Sorry, sorry. I wanna hear it. Seriously, I do.”

“What were you thinking about?”

Dubi looks back at Luc, with his curious smile, and shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [These idiots on vacation](https://i.imgur.com/iUpj6ei.png)
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> I have no idea if Dubi and Andy had another bet this year, but they DID last year, and [here's the aftermath.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNGPQBsnS78)


	11. Chapter 11

They beat Winnipeg, and Brandon has to wear that stupid hat, but he gets his first point of the season. It’s an assist, and not just one of those shitty the-puck-happened-to-touch-your-stick-before-the-guy-scores sort of assist. Brandon makes a move around the D and then makes a great pass to Jack Johnson, who’s wide the hell open, for the score. It’s the game winning goal, too.

Which, thank God. Brandon’s been frustrated with his game, this year. For as good as the off-ice shit is going, the on-ice shit has been. Well. A disaster is not quite the right term, but it hasn’t been great, and Torts has slowly started to grind on him, these past few days. The pass to JJ sort of feels like the only good thing he’s done so far, this season, sometimes. He knows it’s not true, but one point in six games, no goals, it’s brutal.

It’s been okay, because the club is winning and he’s getting his dick wet on a regular basis. But he knows Torts is getting to the end of his rope.

But not tonight. Torts is pleased, which means the room is happy, and the showers are a cacophony of laughing and a new, very obnoxious team game someone thought up and is now being called ‘Endless Shampoo’ and it’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Brandon washes his hair, and just as he rinses it all off Savard is right next to him slapping a fresh load of shampoo on his scalp so he has to rinse it out all over again.

“Dumbfuck,” Dubi swipes at him, laughing, and points over to PL. “Go hit your newest adopted child over there instead of me, man!” Brandon had intended it to be a chirp, about PL living with Savy, but once it’s out of his mouth he realizes he doesn’t ever want to refer to Luc as a _child_ again. Too creepy.

“I’ll get him too,” Savard promises with a grin, and sure enough, a quick swipe later and Luc’s shampooed again. He groans, good natured, offering a choice word to David before he has to re-rinse, too.

Dubi gets hit _again_ by Nick and so he’s just about the last one out of the shower, along with Luc and one or two other guys. The locker room is almost deserted by the time he finishes dressing, just Korpisalo still pulling on his shoes, so he turns to PL and winks.

“Thought you had a great game. Your family is so proud, I bet,” he says, voice lowered a little even though it’s nothing incriminating. Luc’s already seen his family, briefly, right after the game ended, and he’s still riding a high from seeing them again, Brandon can tell.

“You too. That pass on that JJ goal, man. _Sick.”_

“Yeah, keep watchin’ me, you might learn somethin’, eh?” When Dubi turns around, Korpi is gone and the room is empty, and so he throws a friendly arm around PL’s shoulders, kisses his temple. To anyone who might be watching, it just looks like an affectionate between-teammates gesture. Not too obvious. But it feels good, to have his arm around PL, and he can see Luc positively glowing at the attention.

It doesn’t last too long. But they do brush fingertips, a time or two, on the walk out to the team bus, laughing and talking.

~~~~~

After Winnipeg, they’re home again, for a long time. Over a week. It’s a bit unusual, in the NHL, to have over a week in your own bed during the season, so Brandon is gonna enjoy every second of it. They get home late and then have practice the next day, and then PL comes over that evening. Brandon makes him dinner and they have each other for dessert, grinding against each other on the couch while the leftovers get cold in the kitchen.

Luc begs to stay the night. “I told Savy I have a girlfriend, now, and she has her own apartment, so I stay over there some nights,” he tells Dubi, after they’ve moved to the bedroom (and put away the leftovers) and are curled in each other’s arms, naked and sated. “So it’s fine. Right?”

“Mmm,” Brandon grunts, non-committal. At some point Savard is gonna want to _meet_ this girlfriend that is stealing all of PL’s time, and. Well.

“Please,” Luc gives him this pouty sort of puppy-dog face that is, goddamn him, _awfully_ effective. Then, the kicker: “I wanna wake up in your arms and have you be the first thing I see in the morning.”

“Low blow,” Brandon grumbles. He can’t say no to that. “Fine. _Fine,_ but you’re not staying over every night.” Even though he wants that, bad, more than anything. “Next year you’re getting your own apartment, right here in this building. And you can wake up with me every morning.”

“Why bother getting an apartment, then? I can just move in - “

Brandon shuts him up with a look. “No. First off, if any of the boys ever wanna go over to your place, what are you gonna say, huh? And when I have guys over to _my_ place? Cammy’s over here all the time, sometimes Nicky, too, and a few other boys. If you’re always here, they’ll get suspicious. Also, I mean - if we break up - it’s just messy.”

PL looks like he wants to say something. Instead, he just shrugs and offers a one-word dismissal. “Maybe.”

Brandon doesn’t want to get into this, not right now, not when he’s got Luc in his bed. The night is a little chilly but it’s warm under the covers with PL’s gangly legs sprawled everywhere. They end up watching NHL Tonight and idly wondering about what other hockey players are gay, and who they _wish_ was gay (their tastes are awfully different; Dubi’s a Tyler Seguin kind of guy, while PL would rather have Jamie Benn) but it makes for a fun discussion, at least. At some point Luc finds an NHL gay rumor site on his phone. Brandon’s relieved to find himself _not_ on it, although there’s plenty of mentions of Sid and he makes a mental note to tell Crosby that next time he sees him, just to watch him freak out.

“Claude Giroux is apparently bi,” PL says. “According to this.”

“Well, he did drunkenly grope a cop, right? You don’t do that unless you’re at least a little interested.” Dubi sticks out his tongue. “Hard pass on _that_ ass.”

Luc chuckles, shaking his head as he keeps scrolling. “You’re crazy. I’d bang the hell out of him.”

Brandon sort of notices Luc’s ‘type’ is bearded, tough, masculine kind of guys...just like Dubi. It’s the luckiest thing in the world, and he sends a prayer up to the hockey gods or the queer gods or whatever fuckin’ gods run that whole matchmaking service, to have PLD drafted to the Columbus Blue Jackets.

~~~~~

They get shut out by the Lightning and play a godawful first period. Dubi’s line doesn’t get scored on, at least, but that’s not surprising when he only plays about 13 minutes in the game. It’s the least amount he’s played in a long time. He can still hear Torts barking, calling out him, Fligs, Cam, the other veterans, to get shit going.

They don’t.

So he throws on his favorite camo hat and talks cliches to the press for five minutes while sweat streams down his body before he can escape and shower.

The team let one get away, tonight, and everyone recognizes it, so the showers aren’t quite as boisterous as they normally are. It’s quiet enough that he can hear Cam talking to Calvert about their annual drunk practice.

For a few years now, there’s been a tradition with the Jackets that at some point early in the season, the veterans get the rookies absolutely hammered the night before an early practice. Torts knows about it and fuckin’ loves it, loves watching the newbies drag themselves around the practice rink, hungover and hating themselves, while he screams at them for being lazy. Dubi’s fairly sure that Torts would be disappointed if they stopped doing it.

But Brandon’s never usually been a part of that drunk hazing. Not because he doesn’t love drunk hazing, oh no, he definitely does, but Dubi has always sort of been...dismissive, of anything to do with rookies. Always had the attitude of, _earn your keep and I’ll start treating you like you mean a damn thing._ The idea of hanging out with rookies for a night, even to get them drunk, was never something he wanted to do. He knows that’s shitty, and for the past year or so has resolved to do better, especially with the A on his sweater.

Somehow, Brandon knows that ‘treating the rookies better’ probably doesn’t mean sucking their dicks, but that’s how it’s going. With one, anyway.

But now Dubi can’t just 180 and suddenly want to join in on the drunk party for no discernible reason. That would raise eyebrows. Besides, they’re talking about doing it on Sunday, and that’s the night he’s gonna get to talk to his brother, who’s in the military and deployed overseas. They pretty much get one night per month to talk for an hour or two, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

He’s just gonna need to make sure that PL isn’t a _chatty_ drunk. God, that would be a fucking disaster. But hell, it might be better that he’s not there; a vision of a drunk Luc, stumbling over to Brandon and climbing into his lap in front of half the fuckin’ team flashes through his brain, and he almost visibly shudders. Nope. No thank you.

PL heads back with Savy, tonight, so his phone’s pinging as he’s getting ready for bed, them chatting about the upcoming drunk days. Luc assures Dubi that he’s a silly drunk, but not a secret-teller, so it should be okay.

_talk more tmrw,_ Dubi texts, and gets back a selfie. Luc’s in bed, looking sleepy, naked except for tight little black briefs. The head of his dick pokes out above the waistband.

Then, after that, heart emojis. Three of them.

_Hearts._ Brandon’s not quite sure how to respond to that, so he just doesn’t text anything at all. But he falls asleep with a grin.

~~~~~

Brandon goes out with a group of the boys the next day after practice. There’s food involved, but mostly booze, and so PL doesn’t come along. It’s still weird, that he’s not even drinking age, Dubi thinks. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, and a little bit of friendship-bro time without side-eyeing Luc and wondering when the next time Dubi can get him naked isn’t the worst thing in the world.

They end up at Char Bar, one of the little downtown dives that some of the boys seem to like so much, and Dubi’s at the bar waiting for his vodka and soda when he’s aware of a presence next to him. He _smells_ her before he really sees her; the faint scent of alcohol suddenly replaced by sweet perfume. Brandon glances over to see a woman, slid in to the bar stool next to where he’s standing. She’s hot as hell - Brandon might be gay, but he has _eyes_ \- and obviously an Ohio State student, and she’s trying to do that thing where she’s pretending to not be interested but is obviously very, very thirsty.

Dubi’s just gonna ignore her, until he can hear Boone hoot behind him and he knows the boys have seen her. Fuck.

“What are you having?” she purrs as the bartender slides over his drink.

“Vodka and soda.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, my favorite.” Dubi smirks, smoothly slides his drink over in front of her, and orders another. She acts surprised to have gotten the drink, but she’s not. “I’m Ashley,” she introduces herself.

_I don’t care,_ Brandon wants to say, but instead: “I’m Brandon. Ashley, what’s a girl like you doing here all alone?”

“Oh, I’m not alone.” She waves to a table filled with undergrads, their OSU shirts and buckeye caps, a table full of good looking young men and women. “We’re all just here looking for a good time,” she says, leaning closer, until her chest is gently resting against Dubi’s arm. “Aren’t you?”

Brandon’s phone buzzes; he glances up to see the boys, Boone and Josh, Ryan and Seth, giggling and taking snaps of him and the girl. He doesn’t know how to get out of this without them becoming suspicious. She’s so fucking into him that he could probably say or do _anything_ and she’d still agree to fuck him. He’d have to _try_ to screw this up.

He gets his vodka and soda and takes a long sip before answering. “Ashley, I think I have to go to the bathroom. What do you think, you gotta go too?”

And just like that, they’re in the women’s bathroom (which, luckily, is a single). They’re making out and she’s moaning into his mouth while he pumps his fingers in and out of her, underwear pushed to the side and skirt up. She asks to fuck him but he demurs, he’s a little injured and hopped up on PKs but God she’s fucking beautiful and he wants her to come all over his fingers. Well, so he tells her. Dubi thinks he’s probably the only gay man that knows exactly where the g-spot is, curls his fingers just-so to hit it and she’s whining into his mouth and clenching down and shaking.

“You come?” he asks her, and she nods, breathless and a little sweaty.

“Can I blow you?”

“Pain meds,” he tells her, as he’s washing his fingers, using three pumps of soap to try fruitlessly to get the smell off. “They sort of make things not work. But I’d love to fuck you later. What’s your number?”

He pretends to take her number and then they slip out of the bathroom, and she _swaggers_ back to her friends group, a big smile on her face. Brandon’s teammates watch her go by with wide eyes and slack jaws and they accost Dubi when he returns, in hushed, excited whispers.

“You just fucked that girl in the bathroom!” Seth hisses, looking delightedly scandalized. Dubi’s not going to dissuade him of that notion.

“Oh my God,” Boone moans. “You fuckin’ stink of pussy right now, man. You fucking _player.”_

Brandon just shrugs, a ghost of a smile, putting on a no-big-deal sort of act. “Gotta be ready for anything,” he tells the group, and accepts a high five from Ryan.

“So? How was it?” Josh asks, so Brandon spins up a story, him sitting on the toilet, her riding him like a cowboy. As he’s talking, he opens up his phone and scrolls through his messages. The boys have posted him and Ashley chatting at the bar on both Snapchat and their group message, and then another photo of the two of them heading into the bathroom together.

_Teach me your ways!!_ Sonny has already texted back. PL’s hanging with Sonny today, which means…

The text comes a few minutes later, addressed just to him. _WTF?_

Then, a minute later: _Seriously?_

Ugh. Dubi excuses himself to order another vodka and soda. He’s gonna need it, he thinks, to deal with this fall out.


	12. Chapter 12

PL refuses to come over, that night, or even talk. Brandon can’t stop looking at the last text from Luc, after he'd sent increasingly frantic apologies with little acknowledgement: _Look,_ it says, _I’ll just see you tomorrow I guess._

‘I guess’? Brandon doesn’t even know what that means, but he sleeps like shit. Torts has mostly eliminated morning skates, and Dubi decides to let Luc cool off, doesn’t text him all day. So the first time they see each other again is before their game. And, of course, Torts decides to put them back together on a line for the evening.

“Hey,” Brandon mumbles, a little quiet, as PL sits down next to him, looking down at his shoes.

“Sup,” Luc responds, and his voice is sort of blank and cold. He doesn’t look up from his shoes, pulling at the laces, starting to untie them. That’s a very clear code for _not interested in talking to you_ and besides, there’s not much they can really say in the locker room. So Brandon doesn’t really respond.

He’s grateful as the room fills in and the chatter gets louder, and the music starts blasting on high, distracting from the awkwardness. He and Calvert talk idly, and Matt starts to bring up that snap from Char Bar, but Dubi manages to derail that conversation. He doesn’t want to remind PL of it in case Luc is listening in. He’s probably not; PL is nodding along as Nick tells a story, on the other side of him, but Brandon doesn’t want to take chances.

Warm ups are - well, fine. He has a lot of little traditions and superstitions, none of which involve Luc, so warm ups feel normal, at least. Brandon stands at center ice and doles out pucks with Nick. He and Matt skate and jump into each other, colliding in mid-air. Cam stands on the far blue line and they sauce pucks cross-ice for a few minutes. Normal warm up routines that calm him down with how many times he’s done them, over and over again until they feel like second nature.

Dubi doesn’t really have time to feel sorry for himself after the game starts. But he does make sure to compliment Luc a little more than he would normally. _Good play on the boards_ and _nice chip you had_ and _helluva pass up there,_ and he can see the cracks in PL’s armor open up slowly. In the third period he actually flashes a smile at Dubi. It’s brief, but it’s there.

It makes Brandon feel a whole lot better until the fucking Kings score with less than 3 minutes left to go up, and then an empty net to seal the deal.

It’s Matt’s blown assignment that lets them score at the end of the game, so he’s quiet and pissed off in the locker room. Dubi knows him well enough to just give him space. But that means he has a pissed off Matt Calvert on one side of him, and a pissed off Pierre-Luc Dubois on the other side.

It is, needless to say, not the most exciting post-game he’s ever had.

“Can we talk?” he asks PL, softly, after Nick and Matt have gone to the showers. Luc looks a little less annoyed than earlier, but still not happy.

“I guess we should,” he mutters. “After practice tomorrow?”

Brandon wants to talk _tonight,_ but he can tell Luc’s still peeved, so he decides to give him space, and nods. That’s the last they talk that night; PL speeds into the showers, rinses off quickly, and he’s gone by the time Brandon gets back to his stall.

“What’s up?” Nick asks, reaching over and trying to fuck up Dubi’s freshly-gelled hair, which he ducks out of. “You look upset. Is it…’girl’ trouble?” There’s a very slight emphasis on _girl._

Nick doesn’t know how right he is, but Brandon shakes his head. Fliggy might know he’s gay, but he's unsure what Nick would think of him fucking a teammate, especially a rookie. “One point on the season, man,” Brandon goes with that, instead. That’s also been frustrating as fuck, and he’s upset about that too, so it’s not quite a lie.

Fliggy has been having a down season so far, too, so he nods in sympathy. “Your wrist okay?”

Brandon had wrist surgery in the off-season, and - truthfully, it’s not. But he wants to play, he’s not going to sit out over a little lingering pain or numbness. “Is what it is,” he says, instead, and Nick gives him a look.

“Take care of yourself, man.”

Maybe, Dubi thinks, he should stop jerking PL off so much. His wrist sort of burns every time he does it, so probably it’s not great for getting it fully healed. But he’s gotta make up to Luc, first, so he resolves to do just that. _After_ tomorrow.

~~~~~

Brandon loses himself in practice, the next day, paying close attention to the coaches and the drills, keeping himself focused. Usually it’s too easy to zone out, turn practice into a chirp contest or chatting about post-practice plans when you’re waiting your turn to do the drills. Brandon knows he’s toast if he does that, because all his brain wants to think about is how he’s gonna apologize to Luc, and then the hockey is gonna go to shit, and he’s already underperforming in games. So he goes hard, and talks about center lane drive and cycle positions instead of evening plans and potential bars for later.

Josh Anderson wanders over after practice, hair still wet from his shower, while Brandon is slicking gel through his hair. PL got off the ice late, so he’s still in a towel, drying off, and Dubi is trying hard not to look. “Yo Dub, you comin’ out today? We’re pregaming somewhere before the party tonight. I dunno where we’re going, but pretty fuckin’ sure you’ll find someone to bang there, eh?”

Brandon can hear PL’s soft snort of breath next to him, and shakes his head at Andy. “Not today, man.”

“Suit yourself. And you! Ready for tonight, buddy?” Josh punches Luc in the shoulder, grinning. “It’ll be great. You rooks better show up ready to _party.”_

“Always ready to party,” Luc proclaims, offering a crooked smirk. Josh just laughs, sort of a mean, knowing laugh, and wanders off, leaving the pair alone. Now, nobody else is listening - Matt’s in the trainer’s room, and Dubi can hear Nick in the hallway talking to the social media guys - so he leans over to Luc and mutters, “Lunch? My place?”

There’s a long pause, uncomfortably long for Brandon’s liking, but PL nods. “Just gimme a bit. I’ll be there.”

That’s good enough for Dubi, so he finishes slicking his hair and heads home, wanting to get a jump start on food. He already started crock-pot chicken noodle soup before he left for practice, but there’s a new sweet potato recipe he wants to try out.

PL arrives just as the sweet potatoes are coming out of the oven. He takes a deep breath as he walks inside, lifting an eyebrow at Brandon. “Bribing me with food, huh?”

Dubi offers a weak smile. “Will it work?”

“Maybe.”

They chat, a little awkwardly, while they eat. Safe topics: hockey, adjusting to Columbus, those types of things. It’s not until the end of lunch, when their bowls are empty and the last remnants of the sweet potato are being eaten, that PL sets aside his fork and stares down at the table.

“Did you fuck that girl?”

Getting right into it. Okay, then. Brandon takes a quick drink and shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But the snap - “

“I...look, she was all over me. I had to put on some sort of show for the boys. But I didn’t fuck her, PL. I don’t like women, okay? I don’t think I could even get it up for her.”

“So what…?” PL asks slowly, like he’s almost afraid to hear the answer. Dubi takes two fingers, lifts them into the air, and Luc cringes. “I thought we were - _you said_ we were exclusive. Like, literally just a few days ago. You forget already? Or were you drunk when you asked?”

“That’s not…” Brandon huffs in frustration. “Me finger banging a chick isn’t sex, PL! I mean...not something I _enjoy!_ It’s just for show. That’s it. It means nothing.”

Luc makes an annoyed noise. “Don’t tell me it means nothing. It means something to me. You’re so fucking scared of being found out that you have sex - “ Brandon opens his mouth to protest, and PL crashes on, “ - _shut up,_ fingering a girl is absolutely sex! You’re so scared of being outed that you’ll have sex with someone you don’t find attractive. And cheat on me all the while. That’s...that’s...wow, Brandon. Just wow. You’re a _coward.”_

Dubi has to bite back the _fuck you_ that immediately jumps into his mouth. He swallows it down and takes a deep breath. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

He can’t quite think of anything to say to that. Truth is, Brandon hates every second of being with those girls, but he feels like he _has_ to. Or the boys will find out. He's 31 and not married; if he doesn't show a lot of interest in women, it's pretty easy to understand what the guys will think.

Maybe he is a coward. Not that he’d ever, ever fucking admit to it. Instead, he says, “It’s only October, Luc. Give it a full year and maybe after the 50th time you get called a faggot, you’ll see. Because here’s the deal, man. Even if you think every guy in our room will be _supportive_ \- which, I’m skeptical, but whatever - you deal with trades, and you play against other teams. The Blue Jackets aren’t in a fucking vacuum, okay? Guys come into the room and they’re weird - guys leave to other teams and maybe they always felt a little off about you liking dick and they tell their new fuckin’ team, and - “ Brandon throws his hands up, exasperated. “This is what I’ve always done, to protect myself. So I’m sorry, Luc, I really, really am. And I’m gonna try _not_ to...but the behavior, it don’t change overnight. Okay?”

“Okay.” Luc’s simple affirmative surprises Brandon. When he studies PL’s face, to figure out if there’s something else coming, some sort of trick - it’s an odd expression…

_Pity._ Brandon realizes with a start that Luc finds the whole situation desperately sad. He fucking hates pity, doesn’t need it, so he gets up and starts clearing off the table, slamming around the cutlery, convincing himself that he’s wrong in what he’s seeing. As long as PL doesn’t voice it, he can pretend he never saw that look.

Luc’s still sitting at the table, watching him, when Brandon is done clearing it, so he goes and kneels by PL’s chair. Dubi stares at the floor, just in case PL has that pitying look on his face, still. He really, really doesn’t want to see it, is afraid what he’ll say if he does. “I really am sorry,” he says, softly, head down. Almost like penance, he thinks, knelt at Luc’s feet here. “I never wanted - never _want_ to hurt you. It’s just. Well, I have a reputation, and it’ll take awhile to - ...not, do that. But I will. I’ll get there. For you, okay?”

PL cups his chin, lifting his gaze, and the pity is, thankfully, gone. Instead, there’s a smile, eyes soft, mouth curled gently at the edges. “Yeah, I think you will. Just try to get there _fast,_ eh? It kills me, seeing you with someone that’s not me. Think about if the situations were reversed, if that was me going in that bathroom.” Dubi lets out an involuntary growl, and Luc lifts an eyebrow, validated. “Uh huh.”

“Forgive me?” Brandon slides his hands up Luc’s thighs, slowly. “Let me make it up to you?”

PL shivers at the touch. “How?”

They end up on the couch, Luc sitting, Brandon facing him, hovering over PL’s lap on his knees. Dubi’s slumped against PL’s chest, forehead buried in his shoulder as he whines. Luc’s long fingers scissor inside of Brandon, both their clothes long since dispatched.

“You gonna ride me?” Luc whispers in his ear, nuzzling along the hairline. “I think you have some work to do, eh? Make it up to me?”

Brandon nods, wordlessly, breathless, against PL’s shoulder. He can feel Luc’s erection brushing against his leg, his own sitting heavy against Luc’s belly. He bites back a groan as PL curls his fingers, voice cracking when he speaks next. “I’m - oh _fuck_ \- ready, I’m so ready, please…”

He does notice when Luc wipes his fingers on his couch - something he might normally protest, _hey, lube is gonna stain the fuckin’ fabric yanno and that shit was expensive,_ but not here, not now. Luc’s earned the right to stain his couch a little bit and have Dubi not bitch about it. “You just sit back and enjoy,” he purrs, nipping PL’s mouth, reaching behind him to grab his cock and steady it so he can sink down.

Brandon lowers himself slowly, tilted back, enjoying Luc’s huffed little noises. He wants PL to _watch,_ see his cock disappear inside until Dubi’s fully sitting on his lap and both men are groaning.

“You like watching?” Brandon grinds down, not really riding him yet, just a slight friction tease that draws a whine out of PL. “You like seeing me take it, every fucking inch? Huh? Every fuckin’ inch, because I’m _yours.”_

“Well, don’t forget it again,” Luc shoots back, popping his hips upwards in a little thrust. “That you’re mine.”

“Yours,” Brandon agrees, one hand tight on Luc’s shoulder to steady himself, the other curled around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He starts moving as they kiss, a slow, rhythmic up and down motion, swallowing Luc’s pleased noises down his throat. PL grabs his hips, stabilizing him, and Dubi grinds down a little harder, a little faster.

“Wait,” Luc growls, suddenly, and his grip on Brandon’s hips doubles from a gentle, steadying presence to something almost painful, keeping Dubi trapped and immobile. His hips snap up, fucking into Brandon hard, far harder than they typically go, to account for games and practices. PL has forgotten himself occasionally before, going hard for a thrust or two as he loses himself. But this time he keeps going, doesn’t stop, and if this is the apology that Brandon has to give, to let Luc hold him still on his lap and absolutely wreck him, he can think of nothing more enjoyable. He buries his face into Luc’s neck and lets the soft skin there muffle his cries.

It doesn’t take too long before PL’s thrusts get harder and erratic, and Brandon knows he’s on the edge. “Come inside me,” Brandon says, trying to make it sound more like a _beg_ than an _instruction,_ figuring that will go well with the apology. PL seems to like it, makes a snarled little noise of assent before burying himself up one last time. He’s almost always quiet when he comes, but Brandon recognizes his face now during his orgasm, scatters little kisses along his jawline until PL captures his mouth again, hot and demanding.

Brandon still hasn’t come yet, hasn’t even been _touched,_ and his cock hangs heavy in the air, occasionally bumping into Luc’s stomach, leaving a wet trail. He stays on top of PL’s cock as he sneaks a hand between them - 

Dubi can’t contain his surprise as PL smacks his hand away, a smug smile spreading along his features. “You think you deserve to get off?” he asks, in a low voice.

Well. _This_ is something Brandon never expected, this little orgasm denial game, but. He’s sort of into it, so he looks up through his lashes at PL, affects a demure expression. It’s the kind of look he got often from Luc - more so at the beginning than lately - that he always found so hot. He hopes the reverse is true. “I don’t deserve it,” he says. “I’ve been an asshole. But I want to get off. You’re so good.”

PL makes a low hum, obviously pondering. “Ask nice?”

_“Please.”_

He almost sighs in relief as Luc gets a hand on him, starts stroking. It’s too slow - his handjobs are still always just a little too slow - but Dubi doesn’t bitch or put his own hand on top to help. Not this time.

Luc shocks him again by surging forward, biting deeply at his neck, the divot where the shoulder attaches, and Brandon whimpers, knows it’s going to leave a mark. He thinks, perhaps, that’s the point.

“There,” PL says, eyeing his handiwork as he keeps stroking. “Everyone might think it’s one of those girls. But you’ll know the truth, won’t you?”

Dubi nods, hips tilted into the touch. Luc’s gone soft, slipped out, so there’s a mess between his thighs, slippy with lube and come, and it sort of makes him feel filthy, but - the _good_ kind. Between that, and Luc’s surprising little possessive streak, he’s close. If Brandon had his way, he’d have evidence of PL all over his skin, have the boys notice those marks in the shower and he’d glow with the knowledge that he _belongs_ to someone instead of being scared what they might assume. He wants to do the same to Luc, Brandon would love to suck delicate pink hickies into his stomach and down along his thighs until Luc could take no more, would beg him to stop, writhing and red-faced, and then Dubi would fuck him, pressing his fingers into the bruised skin as he came.

Just the thought of it all, the _future -_

He hangs on the edge for a long, tortuous moment, Luc never speeding up his maddeningly slow strokes, and he nearly sobs, silently begging his body to get there. When he does, he comes hard, and slumps forward against PL, boneless and exhausted.

It’s only the afternoon, but Brandon feels like he could sleep forever. He knows he can’t, though, not yet. They’re disgusting, he and Luc, with lube, sweat, and Dubi’s come sealing their stomachs together. They have to shower. Brandon makes an unhappy grunt at the realization.

“I really am sorry,” he says, again, forehead pressed to PL’s shoulder. A lot of guys are under the impression that Brandon is an unrepentant asshole, and usually that’s true. But he’s willing to apologize, to pay penance, when he truly fucks up, and this is one of those times.

“I know you are,” Luc says. “Old men find it hard to change habits, I guess.”

“Hey,” Brandon protests. It has no bite behind it, though, almost a concession of agreement.

Luc smacks his hip. “C’mon,” he says. “We gotta shower. And then maybe...well, I got that rookie hazing tonight, right? So you’ll have to tell me all about what to expect. After you blow me.”

Brandon laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, you gonna be ready to go again so soon? Is this still part of my apology?”

“Let’s just say you owe me a lot more blowjobs.”

Brandon tries to hide a grin, feeling a fierce wave of affection roll through him. “Deal.”


	13. Chapter 13

They shower and then play a little NHL '18. Brandon doesn’t play as hard as he normally does, (which is _hard_ \- he knows he’s too competitive in every facet of his life), lets Luc win to see him smile. Then he gets on his knees and makes good with the promise of that blowjob.

He stays down there, after, the taste of come in his mouth, head pillowed on Luc’s thigh. PL strokes his fingers gently through Brandon’s hair. It’s nice. But he has to move, because it’s getting a little weird, just kneeling in front of Luc without a dick in his mouth. The word _prostrated_ comes to mind, and he doesn’t like it. Makes him uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable for him, maybe. Luc doesn’t seem to mind it. But he also makes a pleased noise when Brandon pops back up to the couch and pulls him close, wrapping a leg around his waist and brushing his lips down the stubble.

“So what am I in for tonight?” Luc asks, voice a little low and groggy, freshly sated from the orgasm.

“Nothing that scary. They just wanna get you drunk and have you show up to practice tomorrow in a shit state. They’re gonna love watching you drag ass all around the rink. Torts loves it, too. Just take it slow tonight, you’ll be fine.” Brandon nuzzles his neck, and PL paws him away, ticklish. “You said you’re _not_ a chatty drunk? I don’t need to be worried, do I?”

“I don’t tell secrets when I’m drunk. No worries.”

Dubi grunts in acknowledgment. Truthfully, he’s not 100% convinced. PL seems eager to tell the world about them, anyway. But he does feel like it’ll be worse if he goes. He can picture Luc pushing him into a corner somewhere, drunkenly groping him, and suddenly Josh or one of the other young dipshits walks in, and - 

_Hell_ no. Plus, he’d have to postpone talking to his brother on top of that, and who knows when the next time they can chat is; phone time in the military is never guaranteed. It’ll be fine, he figures. “Just take it slow,” he repeats, and Luc nods in agreement.

“You wanna play another round of Chel before I have to go?”

Brandon tightens his leg around Luc’s waist, smirking. “Wanna make out instead?”

“Why not both?”

“Maybe.” Dubi bites PL's bottom lip just to hear him gasp, and Luc follows it up with a hard kiss, almost like he's punishing the nip. Brandon's never been much for making out, has always wanted to get down to the good stuff; what good is a kiss without a hand on your dick? But it's different, here, Dubi wants to kiss PL until his mouth is bitten and garish red, until neither of them have any more spit, until PL is panting and clinging onto him like he’s going to drown in the kisses. He feels like they probably won’t get to video games again, and that's just fine with him. PL’s mouth is hot and wet; he climbs into Dubi’s lap and rocks his hips a little, grinding Dubi down into the couch as they kiss.

They are _definitely_ not going to get back to video games, Brandon thinks.

~~~~~

Brandon doesn’t get to talk to his older brother as often as he likes. He’s in the military, still stationed overseas - fighting those wars most Americans think have been won, but the deployment stretches on and on. His brother is in a particularly sensitive area of the world, so they have to use the military’s satellite network, and they can’t talk too long.

It’s late when the call comes in - nearly 11p - but that’s alright. Dubi will happily stay up for it. He talks about the NHL, their season so far, and feels a pang of...something...when his brain reminds him about Luc. Fear? Nervousness? At some point, if this gets serious, he has to tell his family, right?

But a month in is not nearly the time to worry about it, and he doesn’t mention PL at all. He’s listening to a tale about his brother’s latest mission - light on details, for obvious reasons - when his phone buzzes with another incoming call.

It’s PL. He rolls his eyes. Luc isn’t really known for calling on the phone, like most guys his age - mostly texting, which suits Brandon just fine - but Dubi should have known he’d be a drunk dialer. Unfortunately he's got no time to talk, even if a drunken, slurring Luc would be hilarious. He sends the call to voicemail and settles back in with his brother.

It’s almost midnight when their call ends, and Dubi tries giving PL a call back, but nobody answers. There’s no voicemail left, either. Brandon figures he’s probably passed out drunk, with the booze that got stuffed down his throat. Just in case he's not, he sends a text: _remember the gatorade and water before you pass out, drunky!! c u tomorrow_

He’s sort of excited to see a hungover Luc tomorrow. He thinks of a few good chirps before he goes to bed, because he’s gonna give him so much shit during practice.

~~~~~

The phone rings _early._ 6am - an hour before he typically wakes up. Practice isn’t till 9:30am.

It’s Nick, and Brandon’s a little more awake now. There’s no good reason for Foligno to be calling this early. He fumbles for the phone, swiping to answer. “Nicky?”

“Hey, Dubi. Uh. I’m gonna come over, and bring you coffee, and we’re gonna talk. Cream but no sugar, right?”

“Nicky, what’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about, just a slight issue I’d like to speak with you live before practice.” Brandon knows Fliggy well enough that it is definitely something to worry about. “So put pants on, I’ll be there soon.”

“Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“Nope. See you soon.” Nick hangs up, and it’s only then that Brandon notices a text. It’s from Torts.

_BE HERE EARLY 815 MEETING_

A thrill of terror jolts up his spine. Not for the caps lock - that’s just how Torts texts - but early meeting? That never happens. Someone died, someone fucking died, alcohol poisoning or drunk driving - 

It’s then that Dubi notices Tortorella’s text isn’t addressed to the team. Only to him. And that sends a different kind of terror through him. Has he been traded? But no, that's usually a quick and simple phone call from the GM.

Or - oh God - Luc told the team _everything._

If those are the potential options, being traded sounds like a fucking dream. He’d go anywhere in a heartbeat, even to the Penguins, if it meant that John Tortorella didn’t know his secret, or if it meant someone wasn’t dying in the hospital. He throws on his favorite, most comforting pair of fleece pants and unlocks his front door so Nick can come in, burrowing into the couch cushions and searching his phone for any NHL news or gossip.

No news of any deaths, trades, catastrophic injuries or anything else public that he can find before Nick arrives, based on the knock. “C’mon in,” he calls out, glancing up from his phone towards the door, and sure enough, it’s Fligs. He offers a muted smile as he opens the door, looking far more awake than Brandon and carrying a takeout tray of two coffees. Nick offers one to him and then settles down in the chair next to the couch.

Brandon doesn’t say anything, just waits for Nick, taking a sip of the cooling coffee and watching Foligno for any hints of what’s to come. His face is carefully neutral, but Dubi knows him well enough that he has this tic, the side of his mouth quirking up a little when he’s about to give bad news. That little tiny grimace is present, here, this morning, so Brandon waits for the axe to drop.

“Brandon,” Nick starts off, slowly, and that’s another bad sign, calling him _Brandon_ instead of _Dubi._ Nobody really does that, except for PL, and his family. “I wanted to be the first to let you know, so you weren’t blindsided. Last night, at the party - well, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know all the details. But based on the text chains, some of the boys there seem to think that you. Uh. You’re, um, you have this thing, with PL.”

“Thing?” Dubi’s heart drops into his stomach, and then his mind kicks into overdrive. He can salvage this, maybe - somehow, _somehow_ \- based on what the boys know. Right? He has to.

“I guess they got PL drunk and managed to get his phone unlocked. There was, uh, an entry under _‘bae’_ ,” Nick uses air quotations around this word; both he and Brandon are far too old to use it. But PL isn’t. “So of course they looked through the texts. There was, um. Lots of...sort of explicit messages. Then they called the number, and got your voicemail.”

Brandon gets another kick in the gut at the reminder of last night. The phone call that came in; his surprise at the fact that PL was calling him, an unusual occurrence. He remembers swiping to sent it to voicemail. _Hi, you’ve reached Brandon Dubinsky. I can’t answer right now..._

If he wasn’t so fucking _scared,_ he’d recognize the supreme irony in the situation, that Crosby always insisted that Brandon delete all their texts - and he always did, and gave Sid an endless amount of shit for it. Now, here, those undeleted texts with him and PL have been his downfall. His brain, scrabbling for some explanation he can give that will clear the air and get him out of this situation, suddenly stops fighting, and a terrible acceptance settles in. “Who was it?” he asks Nick, setting aside the forgotten coffee on the end table, before his fingers stop working properly and he spills it all over the floor and couch.

Nick doesn’t want to say who, he can tell, so he leans forward and puts his best _don’t-fuck-with-me_ voice on. “Nick. Who was it.”

“The young guys, from what I can tell. You know...Josh. Seth. Boone.”

_“Fuck,”_ Dubi bites off before he can stop it. With those guys, gossip would travel fast, and there was no juicier gossip than two teammates fucking, was there? “Well, those fuckin’ loud mouths must have told Torts, huh? I got this text that I’m supposed to meet him before practice. Did they tell - did they fucking tell _everybody?”_ Except for him, obviously. He has none of these texts Nick is referring to.

It’s already started, Brandon thinks - a new text chain created, excluding him and presumably Luc, too. So the team can _talk_ about them. Talk about the fags behind their backs.

Realistically, he knows that as long as Nick is on those text chains, it won’t get out of hand. Fliggy wouldn’t let it - but tears still prick, hot and urgent, at Dubi’s eyes. Brandon blinks them away. No fucking way is he going to _cry_ about this, not in front of Nick, not in front of anybody. Ain’t no way he’s going to play right into that stereotypical sensitive gay boy thing, absolutely not.

Nick averts his eyes, so Brandon already knows the answer before he says it. “I dunno for sure, but...yeah, I think. I think it got around pretty well. They got Luc home okay, and I got a text from Savy this morning wanting to talk at practice.”

Brandon had nearly forgotten, that PL was living with Savard, that things could become uncomfortable for him very quickly. Well, fuck it. If David was so against it, Luc could move in with Dubi. No hiding anymore, right? “He can move in with me,” Brandon muses out loud, and Nick frowns for a moment, confused, before his eyes go wide and he puts a hand up.

“Whoa, I don’t think it’s...like, _that_ kind of talk. Not like kicking your gay kid out of the house kind of talk. It’s Savy, I mean...Dubi, c’mon. _Brandon.”_ Nick sets his coffee down and moves to sit next to Brandon on the couch. He throws an arm around him, a deliberately friendly motion. “I know this is, like, your worst nightmare. I get it. It’s fuckin’ scary. But I think you underestimate these boys. They’re still the same boys that you love and that love you! And I think they’ll be happy for you two, okay? It’s true, right, that you two are...like, dating?”

Brandon nods, silent and solemn, staring at the pattern on his fleecy pants. They’re space-themed. He stares at the swirls of galaxies and stars.

“I’m not sure Torts will be thrilled,” Nick says, slowly, carefully. “He’s...I mean, PL _is_ young. But I get it. Not a lot of dating prospects, right? How did you two - “ Fliggy cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No, I won’t badger you about the finer details, although you should know I’m damn near dying for ‘em. You promise you’ll tell me sometime soon?”

“I promise.” Brandon glances over, searching Nick’s face for sincerity. “You really think the team - I mean, you’ve gotten the texts. What’s the tone?”

“Shocked, as you might imagine. But nothing negative, okay? The boys do think you’re bi, though.” Fliggy smiles at Brandon’s frown. “Look, you’re really good at pretending to be straight. Those boys have seen you pick up countless girls. Boone texted last night, something like, _shoulda known he’s such a fuckin’ player he doesn’t restrict himself to the ladies._ So you’re going to need to set the record straight, if you want.”

Brandon thinks, for a split second, that’s it, that’s his salvation, he’s just bisexual. But he realizes, quickly, how much worse that lie would make it for him. First, he’d have to keep pretending to pick up girls; if his worst secret is already out, the _only_ positive is that he never has to do that shit again. But it also makes Dubi look like the worst predator. Available girls everywhere and he fucks his teenaged teammate?

No. Brandon is going to have to confess the truth. A conversation he never, ever wanted to have, and he has - Dubi glances at his phone - about two and a half hours to figure out what to say to the team, and even less than that to figure out what to say to his coach.

Torts, holy fuck. Brandon knows Torts well, but even after knowing him for years, he still has no earthly idea how Tortorella is gonna take this. Dubi wouldn’t even be shocked if Torts was _happy,_ for team bonding reasons or some weird shit. “I gotta get ready for that early meeting with Torts,” he says, suddenly remembering the now-cold coffee and taking a long sip.

Nick squeezes his shoulder and stands up. “Maybe get a beer tonight?” he offers, and Brandon grunts, non-committal.

“Maybe.”

“Think about it,” Nick urges, and then he’s out the door.

Brandon looks at his phone again. A little over an hour before he has to meet with Torts. He’s dialing Luc’s number before he can think about it, up and pacing in a circle, an animal sort of instinct because he has to do _something_ and there’s just nothing he can do, not that will fix this situation. Luc answers on the last ring and it’s obvious he was still asleep. “Brandon?” he mumbles, sounding fuzzy. “Ugh. What - “

“They found out, Luc.”

“They - what?” PL sounds hungover, which Dubi supposes was the whole point of last night.

“The team. You got drunk, they got your phone unlocked, and...I mean, you know what our texts look like.” The urge to snap at Luc, to blame him for all of this, is overwhelming, but he tamps it down with another sip of cold coffee. _Those fucking dick pics,_ he wants to yell. Or, maybe, _How the fuck did they get your phone unlocked? Are you one of those dipshits that have 5555 for their unlock password?_

“What?” Luc sounds more awake now. More panicked, at least. “Are you - Brandon, _what?”_

“Yeah I’m fucking serious. This is it, buddy. You got your wish.” He tries to keep the sour note out of his voice and fails. “They all know. And now I have a meeting with Torts this morning because our blabbermouth goddamn teammates apparently told everyone. Just like I knew would happen.”

“What...what’s gonna happen?”

“Fuck if I know!” Brandon genuinely has no idea, and that scares him. “Torts is a fucking mystery. He could do anything from bench us because he hates queers to giving us more ice time because he thinks it’s some novel team bonding shit we got going. Legit, I have no fucking idea, man.”

“I mean. What’s gonna happen with _us.”_

Brandon’s quiet, for a long moment. “I guess it depends on Torts,” he says, slowly. What he doesn’t say is, _I can’t risk my career for you._ He also doesn’t say, _But going back to what it was before, with nobody to call mine, sounds fucking unbearable._ They’re both true, and both at odds with each other. Again, he can feel a deep sense of dread settle into his bones at this looming meeting.

“Everyone will have our back, Brandon,” Luc says, and he sounds confident, way more confident than Dubi is. There’s another, brief flash of anger. _You haven’t earned the right to sound that sure, kid. This isn't your fucking team. Not yet._

Instead, Dubi says, “Maybe.” Then: “I gotta go. Meeting with Torts early.”

“I - “ The syllable, from Luc, hangs in the air a long time, like he’s not sure what to say. “Good luck,” he finishes, softly, and Brandon hangs up the phone without answering. What can he say to that?


	14. Chapter 14

It’s early, at Nationwide and their adjoining practice rink, with no teammates in the building yet. Still, it’s not dark and empty. There’s food service, already working to provide them with post-practice snacks, and equipment guys scurrying with their never-ending job. Everyone seems to avoid his eye, like they know, for Brandon to be here this early, it’s not fuckin’ good.

It’s 8:10. He doesn’t want to be late, but Dubi sure as fuck doesn’t want to be early to this either, so he walks down the hall slowly, sipping his coffee. It feels almost like he’s walking into a courthouse or something, ready to get judged on high by Tortorella.

Not just Tortorella, as it turns out. Brandon turns the corner into Torts’ office and there’s Jarmo Kekalainen and John Davidson sitting there, as well. Fucking fantastic. The coach, the GM, and the team President.

This is gonna go fuckin’ _great,_ Dubi can already tell.

“Morning,” he gruffs out, voice low and grumbly in that way it gets before he’d had any coffee. Problem is, Brandon’s had plenty of coffee by this point, and it still sounds that way. He lingers at the doorway, not entering the threshold.

“Hey, Dubi. C’mon and sit down. Shut the door behind you,” John Davidson says, in his disarmingly gentle voice, and gestures to one of the seats across from Torts. There’s two of them, and they’re both front and center in the room. Nowhere to hide. Brandon gives a curt nod, closing the door and moving slowly to sit down, taking another sip of his coffee.

There’s a long, excruciating beat of silence as Torts rubs the side of his face, like he’s already exasperated at the conversation. “Fuck,” he bites out, softly. Then, louder: “I knew this day would come, someday, just didn’t think I’d be the first to deal with this shit. Dubi, you know what this is about, right?”

He can tell Torts is uncomfortable at talking about the situation, fidgety about even saying the words out loud, so fuck it, Brandon’s gonna _make him_. “Huh uh,” he says, mildly, taking another sip. “What?”

Torts grimaces, still rubbing his face, harder now. He makes a small, annoyed noise. “We know about you and Luc.”

“What about me and Luc?” 

Tortorella’s eyes fly open now, angry. “Don’t give me that shit, Dubi. You fuckin’ know.”

Brandon gives him a blank, _what-the-fuck stare._ “What?”

Torts picks up his phone and nearly slams it on his desk. It’s an older, shitty model. Maybe someday, somebody will teach him how to turn off the fuckin’ caps lock, Brandon thinks. It won’t be him. “Well based off these texts, you two have some history!”

Torts still can’t say it, then, Brandon realizes, and leans forward. He shouldn’t antagonize his coach, but he needs to understand where he’s gonna stand, now, with him, if this gay thing is gonna affect his playing time. “Well, yeah, we’re teammates.” He wonders which one of his asshole teammates texted their fuckin’ _coach_ about this. Thanks for nothing, shitheads.

“Not just - !” Torts looks like he’s gonna blow his fucking top. Maybe it’s time to come clean. “You’re fuckin’ homos!”

Oh. _There_ it is. Brandon glances back, wide eyed, at John Davidson, who doesn’t look impressed. “John,” he offers a gentle rebuke, and Torts takes a deep, calming breath.

“Sorry. You’re gay, is that better? Look, trust me, _trust me,_ I really...really don’t give a damn who you fuck, Dubi, except when it’s my goddamn rookie. Your fucking teammate! You were supposed to be mentoring him! You think this is fucking appropriate? In any fuckin’ capacity? How fucking dumb are you?”

“It’s not like I forced him,” Brandon mutters into his coffee, the cup making his voice echo a little.

“He’s nineteen!” Torts’ voice cracks halfway through _nineteen._ “You know rookies are fuckin’ retarded. And teenagers are retarded, so Luc is like...double fuckin’ retarded! Idiot! You’re supposed to be the veteran. You’ve got a goddamn leadership role, and this is what you do?”

“Not like it’s easy to find a date.” Shit, he doesn’t know why he just told Torts that. It’s not going to make any difference to him, and sure enough, he gets a healthy eye roll in response.

“Well boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s really sad. But your teammates! Are not! A viable! Option!” Torts pounds his fist on his desk after each pause, like he needs _more_ emphasis on what he’s saying.

Brandon sets the coffee cup down on the desk, frowning. “So what are you telling me?”

“No more dating, no more _fucking.”_ Torts curls his lip in disgust, at that last part. “Cut it off. Today. Immediately.”

“But - “ Brandon glances back again, at Davidson and Kekalainen. Their faces are passive, neutral, not revealing anything. Panic is welling up, now, in his bones, the thought of losing PL, the thought of losing all that future he’d dreamt of. “You can’t make me. I can’t - ...John, I _love him._ I won’t - ”

“Oh fuck off with that,” Torts spits back. “You love him, my ass. You’ve known him for like, a month, so don’t give me that horseshit. And I know your dumb ass doesn’t know shit about how jobs actually work, but yeah, actually, we _can_ make you.”

Brandon twists again to look at Davidson. John looks grim, like he’s unhappy to be a part of this conversation. “It’s in the employee handbook,” he says. “You can’t date coworkers. That’s a legal provision in Ohio.”

“Be smart, Dubi,” Torts tells him. “Because I can guarantee you if this shit keeps happening, we have to move one of you, and it sure as _fuck_ ain’t gonna be our highly touted rookie. You wanna get traded?”

Brandon shakes his head, _no._ God, he’s been with the Jackets through so many bad times, and now it's finally, hopefully, the good times. Making the playoffs last year, and - he knows they’ll be back this year. He wants to be a part of it. He deserves to be a part of it. Not to mention his best friends, Nicky and Matt and Cam and all the other boys. If the choice is PL or the Blue Jackets, his _career,_ he knows which one he’s going to pick, even if his stomach lurches dangerously, the swallowed coffee threatening to re-emerge with how bitter the realization is.

Of course. Guys like Dubi don’t get to be happy with someone else. He sees that now. On some level, he’s always known it.

Torts crosses his arms, looking grumpy. “We can’t trade your ass right now even if we wanted to,” he snarks out. “Almost six mill per year and one lousy fuckin’ point. Well, I see why, now. Too goddamn _distracted.”_

“That’s not fair,” Brandon retorts. “My performance on the ice has nothing to do with this.” Torts would never say this to a guy who got a new girlfriend. Brandon can feel a hot jolt of indignity over the statement.

“Oh, so you’re just washed up, then?”

“John,” Davidson warns, again, and suddenly there’s a knock on the door. Jarmo stands up to peek out at who’s on the other side before opening the door wider.

It’s Luc. He’s wide-eyed and obviously nervous and Brandon suddenly understands why there are two chairs here. Luc must have gotten his own summons after they chatted earlier. “Come in, sit,” Jarmo tells him, quietly, comfortingly. Torts’ demeanor changes, a little, shifts into something a little less aggressive as Luc slides into the chair next to Dubi.

“Hey, Luc. Was just chatting with Dubi. We know. About.” Torts waggles his finger back and forth between Brandon and PL, and Luc nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, softly. “Brandon told me.”

“Look. Luc. I don’t care that you two are f - “ Torts screeches to a stop on the _f,_ front teeth still on his lip, and Dubi stares at him.

Fucking, is that what he’s going to say? No - oh, no, else he’d have already said that. Fags. Holy fuck, he’s gonna say _fags._ Torts doesn’t get to say that fucking word. Brandon leans forward, a little, waits for it, eyes wide.

But no, his front teeth slide off his mouth, slowly. “ - gay,” he finishes, lamely. “I really, really fuckin’ don’t. The only thing that matters to me is what you do on the ice.”

Bullshit, Dubi thinks.

“But I can’t have this thing, between you two. It’s bad for the team, okay? I mean, what happens if you have a nasty break up, what then? We just gotta cut this off at the head, alright? So just...be friends. And not more than that.”

Luc whips his gaze to Brandon’s, looking crushed. “Can they do this?” It’s almost a whisper. Brandon nods, somberly, slowly, and PL puts a fist up to his mouth and bites down, like he’s gonna cry.

Don’t cry, Dubi urges him, silently, his irritation flaring suddenly. Don’t cry, don’t show this fucking asshole that you’re sad, or he’s gonna _use_ that knowledge, lock it in his brain that’s you’re a soft little queer that can’t deal with shit. Brandon kicks his leg, frowning when Luc looks over at him. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. _Don’t._

“This isn’t gonna be a problem for you boys, is it?” Torts asks.

“No,” Brandon mutters, snagging his coffee and taking a long sip. It’s lukewarm, now, but he doesn’t care. Beside him, Luc only shakes his head, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Good. I expect it won’t. You can go now, Luc. Any questions, you wanna chat with me in private, you just let me know. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Luc doesn’t sound like he’s in immediate danger of crying, anymore, but the sadness is unmistakable. He takes the opportunity given and flees out the door. Brandon’s left, sitting and nursing his room temperature coffee, staring at Torts, wondering what the fuck else this asshole wants.

“Go figure out something to tell the boys about you two,” Torts says. “And then go home. Take today off from practice. Just go get your fucking head on straight, Dubi.”

That’s ironic, Brandon thinks.

“Look, I need you, okay? This team needs you to be that player you were before. You’re having a shit year, but it’s still early. I expect you to turn it around, now that you can focus a little more on hockey. And...look, I don’t enjoy this, okay, but I’m gonna take away your A. I don’t want you worrying about _leadership._ Quite frankly, I don’t think that’s something we can trust you with, right now. Just get your game figured out, okay, Dubi?”

“You’re taking away my alternate?” Brandon’s jaw drops, and now his meek sadness morphs into a righteous anger. It’s a dumb thing to get angry about, maybe, being that this conversation has broken his relationship up and threatened his career. But it’s just one more thing, the last fucking straw, and a very visual reminder of what just happened. He can’t escape from that ‘A’ being off his sweater. _Everyone_ will notice it; fans, the other teams, the press. Everyone will ask and speculate. “That’s bullshit!”

“No, _bullshit_ is you banging the fuckin’ guy you’re supposed to be mentoring while playing like garbage every night on the ice! That’s bullshit!” Torts holds his hands up. “Don’t...I don’t even wanna hear it. Not another fuckin’ word. Just go and set the story straight with the boys and then go home and we’ll see you tomorrow and start fresh. Okay?”

Brandon doesn’t have to look back at Jarmo or Davidson to know they won’t be any help. They sure won’t back him up over Torts. “Fine,” he snarls, standing up so fast the chair nearly tips over, and stalks out the door. He’d slam it, normally, but it’s one of those doors that has the little air cushion which causes it to shut gently, like a hotel room door. They installed it halfway through last year. Someone probably got sick of Torts banging it all the time.

He finds an empty trainer’s room, shuts the door, and goes down on his knees, hands on his face. Suddenly, he has a hard time breathing, sucking in great gulps of air and not fighting it as the tears roll down his face. They track through his beard and hang on his chin, hot and wet. He’s lost his alternate captaincy, he’s lost his coach’s trust, and he’s lost Luc, too. Worst fuckin’ day of his life and he still has to walk into that room and come out of the closet to his boys.

All he wants to do is go home and drink until he can’t remember his name anymore. Can’t remember _Luc’s_ name, anymore.

Soon enough, he supposes.

He stays on the floor for what feels like a long time, sucking air and choking back ugly, loud sobs, trying to stay quiet so nobody opens the door and sees him like this. Finally, it’s like a wave of calm rolls over him, and he pulls himself together. Like his brain has decided _enough_ of this pussy shit and accepted the inevitable, and like his body is too tired to cry anymore. He feels numb inside, but that’s preferable to the wallowing sadness of before. Numb, he can work with. He digs his palm into his eyes and vigorously wipes away the tears, then slips out of the door and finds a sink, splashing water on his face over and over again.

Brandon hears a noise, from another one of the trainer’s rooms, and suddenly the door opens. It’s Nick and Luc. They’re both dressed in their undergear, sweat wicking shirts and long jocks, because they’ve got a practice to go to. Brandon suddenly remembers that he does not.

Luc looks upset, and he’s obviously fresh from crying. Dubi’s seen that red face before; PL on his knees, Brandon’s come in his mouth, the dick in his mouth still making his eyes water. Twin tear tracks running down his smiling face. He forces himself to shove the memory away. It’s something he’ll never get again, not from Luc.

Nick has his arm around Luc, a comforting, captainly sort of gesture, but gently peels away to gather Brandon in his arms. Dubi stays in Fliggy’s arms for a moment, stiff and uncomfortable. If he lets himself really accept the hug he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, and he can’t risk falling back into tears. “I’m sorry,” Nick tells him, and he sounds helpless and sad. “Luc told me what Torts said. It’s - it’s bullshit, alright? I can try and talk to him, if you want.”

“Won’t do any good and you know it,” Dubi says, grimly. “But okay.”

“You wanna go talk to the boys?”

“I guess I probably should.” Brandon throws a hand through his hair, trying to tamp it down. He didn’t do a good job of making it presentable this morning, and it’s sort of stupid, but he doesn’t want every guy staring at him while he looks like shit. He wants to look somewhat put-together, before this announcement.

“C’mon, we got some time before practice, and everyone’s here.”

“Yeah.” Brandon refuses to meet Luc’s eye, and so PL turns and follows Nick, head down and staring at the floor. After a beat, Dubi moves too, walking behind slowly.

They reach the locker room, that familiar red brick facade that Brandon has come to associate with so many good memories but now holds only dread. Nick pulls PL inside with him, and Dubi can hear the room go quiet, voices slowly dropping off.

Well. This is it.

Brandon takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s about to burn up with anxiety, and walks into the room. Every man’s eyes swivel from Nick and Luc to him. He suddenly remembers the hickey that Luc bit into his neck yesterday and wonders if they’re staring at it, now, knowing what it’s from. He shoves his hands into his pants, resists the urge to turn up his collar, and keeps his head held high, almost defiant.

Dubi walks in, to the edge of the logo, and stops, licking his lips. “Hey guys,” he starts out, as if he’s making a casual announcement. “So, uh. I, um.” Fuck, he’s had two hours and he can’t figure out how to start this off. “Look, so, there’s some texts going around, I hear. I guess last night some of you guys managed to get PL’s phone unlocked and go through his shit while he was drunk.”

Luc mutters something in French. Dubi doesn’t need it translated to know he’s angry about it. Angry at who, Brandon doesn’t know. Himself, for having shit phone security? Maybe the mystery guy that got it unlocked?

“And there were, you know, some texts to me, that uh...that well…” Goddamnit. Brandon can feel the redness creeping up his neck, into his cheeks. “Fuck it, let’s just get it out there. Yeah, Luc and I were together. Okay? Like...dating together. Like _gay_ together. So, there it is, there you go.” He stares around the room, as if daring someone to challenge him, trying to keep his jaw from quivering.

There’s a long moment that Dubi hears nothing but the blood pounding in his ears while the guys stare around the room at each other. Then, from a stall to Brandon’s left, a place he’d never have expected, Sergei Bobrovsky gives him a wide smile and shrugs his shoulders. “Cool,” he says, going back to pulling his pads on, like Brandon had just announced he was going to eat steak for dinner or some other extremely mundane proclamation.

He was nervous, about Sergei. Russians aren’t known to be the most accepting of gay men, and sure enough, Artemi Panarin looks freaked out, he’s not even really trying to hide it. But Bob...well, it’s fuckin’ _Bob._ He should have known. Brandon feels like he could kiss him right now, although he definitely wouldn’t, because that would probably make him uncomfortable. Just - so grateful to his weird fuckin’ goalie, because his proclamation of ‘cool’ sets off a chain reaction he never expected.

It’s chaos in the room, suddenly, and then there’s guys in his face, Cam and Boone and Seth. Cam is _hugging_ him. He can see, over Cam’s shoulder, Lukas Sedlak has rushed to give PL a hug, and Sonny is there too, ruffling his hair with a smirk. This isn’t what Dubi expected at all.

“Team couple,” Seth’s laughing, “Holy shit. That’s a first!”

“You never told me - !” Cam sounds hurt.

Boone’s talking over them both, babbling and looking thrilled. “Fuck, does this mean you’re not gonna steal those ladies out from under - “

“Boys!” Nick’s voice suddenly reverberates around the room, and the place falls quiet. “I don’t think he’s done. Dubi?”

“Uh, no,” he says, and Cam shuffles back a few steps. “I said...look, I said _were_ together. They won’t let us. So as of right now, we’re just teammates, okay? Nothing else.”

“Can they do that?” Cam whips around to Nick, looking indignant. “The fuck is that, Nicky?”

“Oh, shit,” Boone yelps, pointing a finger at Ryan Murray. “Murrs, remember last year, you tried to date that ice girl and they wouldn’t let you? No relations with other employees, they said.”

Ryan makes a _thanks-for-bringing-that-up_ sort of grimace, but nods.

“Fuck,” Seth mutters, shaking his head. “That sucks. Back to the ladies I guess, huh, Dubi? PL, man, I bet we can find you a cool dude - “

“Find two,” Brandon bites out, before he can stop himself. “I don’t like women, either.”

_Now_ it’s quiet again, and the boys are giving each other wide-eyed looks. Brandon is finally able to look around the room, get a good look at everyone’s faces. Savard looks - well, pretty calm. Not excited, but not pissed or anything, just thoughtful. That’s good, for Luc’s sake.

Dubi catalogues the guys that are visibly uncomfortable. Panarin, as he saw before. Jack Johnson’s making a very poor effort _not_ to look weirded out; fuck, he’d never have expected that from JJ (some tickle in the back of his brain reminds Dubi that Jack and Sid are close, and boy isn’t Jack gonna be fuckin’ shocked if Crosby ever spills the beans). Josh Anderson looks like he doesn’t know how to feel, the conflict and unease written plainly on his face. And Matt - 

Matt Calvert’s expression is carefully neutral, but Dubi’s been his friend for long enough that he knows exactly what that means, and it’s nothing good.

Well, Brandon expected to lose friends, with this announcement. Losing only a few was, quite frankly, better odds than he’d have hoped for. It still hurts. He supposes he’ll need to cancel vacation plans with Matty, now, after this.

“What do you mean you don’t like women?” Josh Anderson blurts out, bringing Dubi back to the situation at hand. Fuck, still in the middle of this coming out garbage, he remembers. “I’ve seen you pick up a million goddamn women. We all have.”

“I - ...yeah, I...either managed to ghost em or I took them home and ate them out or whatever. Had to keep up appearances.”

Josh is still stunned, and his mouth keeps going. “But they always looked so happy. You didn’t fuck them?”

“Wait wait wait,” Cam holds out his arms. “You’re telling us that you, like, ate pussy, even though you don’t _like_ pussy, because...you thought...you couldn’t come out? That you had to, like, hide from us?” _From me,_ is the silent question. The hurt look is back on Cam’s face, now, tinged with a healthy side of horror.

“What does that say about us?” Seth muses, crossing his arms over his chest and sounding just as sad as Cam looks.

“We’re all okay with it, Dubi,” Boone declares. Brandon doesn’t point out the sketched-out looks from some of their teammates, just lets Jens keep talking. “In fact, I think this is _awesome._ First off, this means we don’t have to compete with you any more on pick ups, second off, gay men make the most perfect fuckin’ wingmen ever!”

Ryan Murray throws a roll of tape at his head. “This isn’t about you,” he hisses, and Boone falls quiet, rubbing his temple where the tape struck. But Dubi is grateful, to Boone. His proclamation seems to indicate that they still want to hang out with him. That’s more than he expected, really.

Nick stands up, and Brandon recognizes his _authority stance._ “Listen, we’re still the same fuckin’ team we were yesterday. We had two gay men in the locker room then, and we still do, and nothing is gonna fucking change. You got a problem, you come fucking talk to me, okay? And for God’s sake, keep this shit in the room. Last thing PL and Dubi need is for every asshole in this league to find out. Got it? Questions?”

There are none, and suddenly Brad Larson, one of the assistant coaches, is sticking his head in the locker room. “Get your asses out here,” he hollers. “You’re all gonna be late.” Then, quieter, as the boys start pulling on the rest of their gear, “Dubi, we’ll see you tomorrow, eh?”

“Tomorrow?” Cam is still close enough to hear, and he frowns. “You’re not practicing today?”

Brandon shakes his head. “They told me to go home,” he mutters, low enough that only Cam can hear.

“Is this...was this thing with you and Luc…” Cam flicks his eyes back to PL, seems to notice his red-rimmed eyes. “Was it...serious?”

Brandon glances over at Luc, just for a moment, afraid he’s going to get choked up. “No,” he says, and he can tell Cam doesn’t believe him. All he wants to do right now is get the fuck out of the locker room. It’s all been too much, today, and Brandon’s not sure if he wants to scream or laugh or cry or get drunk or go to sleep. “Look, you gotta get on the ice. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Like hell you will,” Cam calls after him. “You know I’m coming over right after practice.”

Dubi can only flick his hand in Cam’s direction, unable to say another thing for fear of bursting into tears again. He’s almost to freedom when Bobrovsky - the closest stall to the door - stands and grabs him in a big hug.

“Still love you, Dubi,” he says, in such a cheerful and loving tone that he can only nod, extract himself from the crush of goalie gear, and escape out the door. He’s crying before he makes it to his car, but at least there’s nobody there to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For realism, I had to make some people weird about Dubi coming out. Sorry if your favorite player made that cut - there will be resolutions with certain people throughout the rest of the fic. I have no idea if the chosen people are actually homophobic / uncomfortable with gay people.


	15. Chapter 15

Cam has a key to Dubi’s place, so Brandon doesn’t even expect a knock, just waits for the sudden small blonde whirlwind to show up in his condo. He’s wrong; he gets one quick knuckle rap on the door as a courtesy before Cam breezes inside.

“Sorry I’m late, Nicky was sitting everyone down one-on-one for the ‘dad talk’ about how to be an ally and not an asshole.”

“Good old Nicky,” Brandon mumbles, halfway through a beer, sprawled on his couch. Truth be told, though, he does appreciate it, even if he doesn’t think it’ll do much good. The boys that don’t like it still won’t, no matter what Foligno says.

“Damn, B. How many have you _had?”_ Cam asks, surveying the array of beer cans on Dubi’s coffee table.

It _is_ an impressive collection, Brandon thinks. He’s stacked his empty cans in a little mini pyramid on the table. Occasionally, in the few hours he’s been drinking beer while his teammates practiced without him, he’s kicked that pyramid over in a sudden, furious fit of anger, watching the cans scatter and bounce until he’s calm enough to collect and build them again. There’s a thin veneer of cheap beer along the table and floor now from it.

“Well, count em,” Dubi tells Cam. Nine, he knows, and he’s got the tenth in his hand.

“You plan on just drinking the entire twelve pack?”

“No,” he retorts. “It’s a twenty-four pack, and yes, I do intend to drink all of them.”

“B,” Cam groans, slumping down on the couch beside him. “Why you doing this?”

Brandon stares at Cam and takes a long swig before answering. He ignores the other man’s eyeroll. “Didja miss what happened today, Cammer? Like the whole getting kicked out of the closet shit? The whole, now the entire org, including the coach and GM, knows I like dick situation?”

“It’s not - “ Cam scrunches his face up. “Look, I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but we all support you in that room, man. We still love you. _I_ still love you, you’re still my best bro.” As if to prove a point, Cam scoots closer and slings his arm around Brandon. It’s sort of awkward due to the size difference, but Dubi recognizes that Cam is _trying_ so he doesn’t move, even if it’s kind of uncomfortable.

“You’re telling me that you’re not gonna be awkward as fuck if I make a joke about fucking you, or something?”

“Buddy, you always did tell me I was the perfect height for giving blowjobs,” Cam smirks, clapping Dubi on the back. “I just didn’t know that you had first-hand experience with it. Guess I shouldn’t doubt you anymore, eh?”

Brandon finally cracks, sets down his beer and laughs, long and loud. He doesn’t want to admit how much of it is relief. “ _Fuck,_ Cammer.”

“Come here, you asshole,” Cam huffs, and yanks him in for a hug. It feels good, but it’s also creating a dangerous eye-watering situation for Dubi.

“Thanks, short stuff,” he mumbles against Cam’s shoulder, then extracts himself out of the embrace before he starts crying again. “You’re wrong, though. Ain’t no way everyone supports me in that room. First off, someone’s uncomfortable enough that they fuckin’ _snitched_ about this to our goddamn management team.” Cam grimaces, and Brandon resists asking further questions. He’s pretty sure in his buzzed state, if he knew who it was, he’d get right in his car, drive over to their house, and start punching. “Plus, I saw some of their faces when I made my announcement.”

“Like who?”

Dubi downs the rest of his beer before answering, ignoring Cam’s sigh of disapproval. “Our new Ruski, for one.”

“Panarin? Yeah, well, Bob’ll set him straight. Who else?”

“Andy looked freaked out.”

“Andy’s a fuckin’ idiot man-child sometimes. It’ll just take him a few days to get used to it. Besides, all his buddies, Jonesy, Jens, Murr, Scotty, all those boys are totally fine. Actually some of them just seemed really excited to have a gay friend, like it’s the cool thing to do.”

Brandon slinks off the couch. “Oh goodie, the token queer buddy,” he mutters flatly. “You want a beer?”

“That piss you’re drinking?” Cam crinkles his nose, but shrugs. “If it means you don’t drink it, then yes.”

Brandon snags two more cans out of the fridge, tosses one to Cam on his way back. “JJ, for another. And - ...and Matty.” That last one hurts the most. Dubi gets a sudden swell of hurt crashing over him and cracks open his beer. He’s over halfway to drunk and wants to get there faster.

“Mmm.” Cam makes a soft noise, so Brandon knows he’s right, _fuck,_ he knew it. “It’s just a surprise, you know? He’ll be okay.”

“What if he’s not?”

Cam shakes his head. “He will be,” he says again, firmly. Like he can just _will_ Calvert to be totally cool with gays. Cam can’t seem to think of a world where Matty can’t accept Brandon, but for Dubi, the acceptance from most everyone else is the real surprise. It’s Calvert’s type of reaction that doesn’t shock him.

They sit there in silence for a long moment, staring at the TV, which is on mute. Brandon’s watching HGTV. He’s never really dared keep it on if there’s any chance at all he’ll be caught watching it - way too fucking faggy - but watching house fix-it shows sort of relaxes and soothes him and puts him in a chill vibe. He needs that right now. Cam finally seems to notice what’s playing. “Is this HGTV?”

“Uh huh,” Brandon takes another sip of beer.

“You _are_ gay,” Cam jokes, then turns serious. “Well, I mean, I like Holmes on Homes. I watched it once before we hired those contractors to redo the bathroom and. I dunno, it’s cool.”

Brandon smirks. “Maybe you’re gay, too.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Cam promises, then turns serious. “Look. I don’t...I don’t want to make this about me. But. Is there something, like _anything_ I did, or do, that made you think you couldn’t come out to me? Because I wanna be, you know, an all for you, so, uh - “

“Oh fuck,” Brandon cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t run out and buy a rainbow flag on account of me, Cammer. No, this is my fuckin’ hang up, not yours. Thing is. Thing is you just never _know,_ do you? You can be 99% sure, and really, I was, with you. But that 1% eats at you, it nags, it gnaws, and it’s just easier not to say anything. So I didn’t.”

“So you just...I mean, nobody knew?” Cam looks blown away by this prospect. Welcome to the gay athlete experience, Brandon thinks, a little sourly.

“PL knew. At least I hope he did,” he says, sarcastically, and Cam punches him in the shoulder. “Ow. I mean - fine, Nicky knew, too. But nobody else.”

“Nicky?” Cam frowns. “You told Nicky?” _But not me,_ is the silent question on the end of that.

“Well I had to, after he sort of walked in on me and Cruuuh…” Brandon must be drunker than he thinks, because he _almost_ finishes that sentence.

It turns out not to matter, because Cam’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Cr...oh my fucking God is the end of that word _osby?”_

Dubi shakes his head, taking another drink and not meeting Cam’s eye, but he knows it’s a lost cause. “Oh my God it makes so much sense,” he mutters, softly. “Oh my God _oh my God oh my God._ You two - oh my God, no wonder you get so fucking riled up about him, and he just looks at you like - ohhhh my God.”

“If you say that phrase one more time, I’m going to smack you.”

Cam claps a hand over his mouth, like he doesn’t trust himself not to offer up any more _oh my God_ s. “I have so many questions,” he says, muffled with his hand over his mouth.

Dubi starts to say he won’t answer shit, but - it’s Cam, and, well. Fine. “I’ll answer one,” he decides. “Only one. Make it good. And in return you do not breathe a word of this to a single soul. Not Nat, not anyone on the team, not anyone on the Penguins, _nobody._ Because seriously, this gets out...look, the guy has a lot of money, I wouldn’t put it past him to hire a hitman or some shit on me. He’s the most paranoid son-of-a-bitch about it. Anyway.” Brandon finishes his beer, licks his lips. “One question.”

Cam narrows his eyes in thought, then grins. “Who fucks who?”

Brandon would spit out his beer, if he had any left, which reminds him to get another, so he wanders back over to the fridge and ignores Cam’s hum of disapproval. “Are you _seriously_ asking me who tops? That is your one fuckin’ question, Cammer? Well, shit. We - “ _switch off,_ he almost finishes. But he stops, blinking at Cam’s expectant face.

Dubi knows exactly how straight boys think. Bottoming means you’re the girl. Submissive. The idea of getting fucked to most of them is so weird, so foreign, so...disgusting. He thinks back to the talk he had with PL: _it’s not like topping makes you a man._

He should tell all that to Cam, but anxiety rides high at the boys finding out that not only is he gay, but he bottoms, too. So instead, he smirks and walks back over, fresh beer in hand. “What do you think? Crosby’s a bitch in every way, let’s just say that.”

“Boom!” Cam laughs, and they fist bump, and Brandon’s stomach twists into fresh knots of disgust and shame.

“Still can’t believe you asked me that. As your _one_ question.”

“Well it’s not like you gave me a lot of time to think about it,” Cam argues, then frowns. “Shit, I really want to know how it started between you two. How did Nicky find out, and - “

“You had your one,” Brandon interjects, popping the tab on his next beer.

Cam rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, you know you’re just gonna tell me anything I wanna know when you’re high this summer.”

Cam still wants to hang out with him this summer, then. That’s enough for Dubi to smile. “You fuckin’ wish.”

They sit there for another long stretch of silence, watching the muted figures on TV knocking down walls and doing some sort of reno project. With anyone else, it might be weird. With Cam, it’s just comfortable. Even watching HGTV on mute is no big deal. Not for the first time, Brandon wishes Cam were gay. They’d make the best fuckin’ couple, he thinks.

Oh well.

It’s Cam that breaks the silence next. “So, you and Luc,” he says slowly, like he’s testing his words out, trying not to say something else stupid. “You guys were a thing, huh.”

“Were,” Brandon emphasizes. “It was no big deal.”

Cam grimaces, that same look he gave in the locker room, like he doesn’t quite believe it. But he doesn’t push, just nods after a long moment. “Well, that’s good, I guess,” he says, slowly. “We gotta find some smoking hot dude for you then, eh? ...but, uh, you’re okay with them being old enough to legally drink, right? I mean. Based on your history, I gotta ask.”

Brandon glances over at that, registers Cam’s grin that he’s (poorly) attempting to hide. The fact that Cam can bust his balls over this shit is a good sign, Dubi thinks. Above all, he doesn’t want to be treated any differently. “Better be above 5’8, too,” he shoots back. “Those short guys are just _not_ attractive.”

“We’re the perfect height for blowjobs,” Cam chirps.

“Everyone’s a perfect height for blowjobs on their knees, short stuff!” The pair laugh, but Brandon gets serious again quick and shakes his head. “Look, I know I said it in the locker room to find me someone, but...don’t bother. It’s too risky getting hooked up on a date with some random dude. Who the fuck knows whether they’re gonna be discreet or not? It ain’t worth it.”

“C’mon, B, you’re over 30 now. I know you want a relationship. I saw you at my wedding. You were slow dancing with that bridesmaid, Allison, and I thought for sure you were going for it because you had this happy grin on your face, and now I realize you were probably thinking about a _guy,_ but - “

“I was fucking drunk, Cam,” Brandon mutters. His heart rate spikes enough to know that he’s probably blushing, so he covers it with a long drink. Problem is, Cam’s not _wrong._ He did indeed dance with that bridesmaid, and close his eyes, and picture that it was someone he was in love with, some hot tall-dark-and-handsome nameless dude, and picture what it would be like at his wedding. Or hell, even to have a date he actually liked at someone else’s wedding and dance with that not-real boyfriend there.

But he meant what he said. The idea of going out on dates with some random stranger whose trustworthiness cannot be guaranteed makes him queasy.

“But am I wrong? You want someone, don’t you? It’s not fucking fair that you can’t.”

Well, life isn’t fucking fair, Brandon thinks as he shrugs. “You got a lot to learn about gay men,” he says, instead. “See, the joke is always that husbands wanna fuck and the wives say no, right? But with gay men, there’s no wives. So why settle down?”

“Because anonymous sex gets old after awhile? B - “

Dubi snorts as if that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, cuts him off with a wave. “Cammer, you got a _lot_ to learn about gays.”

~~~~~

Cam finally heads out after Brandon gets through a twelve pack and is drunk enough to take a nap. The sky is getting dark when he wakes up next. He glances at his phone; texts from Nick, Boone, Seth, Scotty, Ryan, most of them encouraging him to come out or asking if they can come over. He’s not sure whether they’re trying to be supportive or if they just want to gossip (his teammates might be straight, but holy fuck they dish like girls). He ignores them all.

There’s also a couple texts from PL. He doesn’t even read those. Ignores them, too. Instead, he drags himself out of bed, shovels some cold chicken and pasta leftovers into his mouth, shotguns three more beers and slinks back to bed. He at least makes sure to set an alarm this time, because he plans to sleep the entire fucking night away. Maybe when he wakes up next, this whole day will be a dream.

Dubi’s jolted out of his sleep again a few hours later. He cracks an eye open; the clock on his dresser says 22:28 in blazing red letters. Something woke him up; something’s not quite right. He can feel it.

“Brandon,” a voice says, and Dubi finally notices the vague human-shaped outline hovering near the door. Adrenaline slams into him, the fight-or-flight response waking him up, before his brain registers that it’s Luc.

“Jesus motherfucking _Christ,”_ he spits out, burying his face into his pillow, chest heaving with panic. “The fuck d’you want, Luc? Don’t - Jesus, don’t do that, man.”

“What do I _want?”_ Luc sounds a little angry. He flicks the overhead light on, and Brandon groans, squints, throws his face back in the pillow. “Oh, I get it. That’s why you weren’t answering your phone. You’re drunk.”

“Nah,” Brandon mutters into his pillow. That’s not entirely correct; now that the adrenaline is wearing off, brain and body realizing he’s not in danger, he feels that floaty sort of sensation he’s been chasing after all day. The three extra beers he had with dinner helped. But he’s not drunk. Just pretty buzzed.

Maybe really buzzed. Fine, maybe he is a little drunk. But that’s what he wanted, so he’s not going to complain.

“Don’t you think we need to talk?” Luc asks, moving into the room. Brandon’s suddenly very aware that he’s mostly naked, just in his boxers, and that just 24 hours ago this would have ended with PL underneath him, whimpering his name. He pulls the covers up tighter and tries not to think about it.

“What’s there to talk about? You heard Torts. That’s it, we’re done.”

Luc seems flabbergasted, standing next to the bed now. “That’s it? Like...just done?”

“What else do you want me to say, Luc,” Dubi snaps, irritation rising. He’s deeply upset about this whole thing, but they haven’t been given a choice, and in his drunken state, he can feel his anger at the unfairness of the whole situation turning outwards, towards PL. “We’re done. And they told me if we don’t cut this off, well, let’s just say it’s not gonna be _your_ ass on the line. Okay? It’s mine. It’s my career that’s at risk here. Your ass isn’t worth my career. Man, you...you shouldn’t even be here.” Half of Brandon is so upset he can barely think, choking on the bitterness of the situation. The other half wants Luc so bad, _so bad,_ he’s just fucking standing right there, it would be so easy to pull him into bed. One last time. One more chance to taste, to kiss his mouth until it’s swollen, to hear him cry Dubi’s name.

One more time. Who would know?

He gets halfway to reaching for PL’s wrist when he stops, clenches his hand into a fist. No, much like a drug addict, he has to go cold turkey on this. It stops _now._

“Aren’t you upset about this? I mean, it’s not fair, right? There has to be something that can be done.” Luc looks indignant. And naive. Like he truly believes _fairness_ is a factor here in this whole shitshow, and somehow they’re gonna figure out a way to be together. But life doesn’t work that way, Dubi knows. Professional hockey, especially, does not work that way. This league will chew them up and spit them out without a second thought if they push this issue.

“Of course it ain’t fair,” Brandon mutters. “But there’s nothing we can do, okay?”

“I don’t believe that,” he says, shaking his head and reaching for Brandon’s hand. When he grabs it, it’s like Dubi’s been burned, all hot fire and want and need. He realizes in a flash that not only can he not be PL’s boyfriend, he can’t even be PL’s friend right now. Not now. Maybe not ever, if this deep ache in his chest that throbs every time he looks at Luc won’t go away, if so much as touching his hand causes _this_ kind of reaction. But definitely not right now. And Luc won’t understand that, he knows, will keep being friendly to him, and Brandon’s not sure he can take that. Dubi has a career to think about it, after all.

And if there’s one thing Dubi knows how to do, it’s how to piss people off. How to make people hate him.

So instead of what he wants to say, _Upset? Not just upset, I’m fuckin’ crushed, Luc, every time I think about you I’m barely fucking holding it together, I think - I really think maybe I loved you, and we’ll never have that now, and I just don’t know what to do with myself, it all hurts so fucking bad._ Instead, he rolls his eyes and flops back over, dismissively. “Man, it hasn’t even been a month,” he says, remembering Torts’ words. “You were a fun fling and a good piece of ass, but whatever. It’s really not that big of a deal, okay? I know it probably seems that way to _a child_ like yourself, but I promise when you grow up you’ll figure it out. Probably.”

“A - a child - “ PL grabs his hand back, spluttering. “Are you serious right now? I guess that’s why you’re drunk, because you’re just so cool with everything? Whatever, maybe if you weren’t so...emotionally fucked up, you’d realize you’re allowed to be upset about - “

“I am upset!” Brandon’s off the bed in a flash, slamming Luc against the wall, breathing hard and staring up into the younger man’s eyes. PL’s eyes are wide and shocked, and he stays very still. “But not about you! Not about your stupid ass! I don’t give a _fuck_ about you! I’m upset because I just got ripped out of the goddamn closet against my will!” Brandon narrows his eyes, lip curling in a snarl. “Actually, I do give a fuck about you. I’m goddamn pissed at you. It was your actions that caused this, too much of a dipshit to lock his phone properly. So don’t look at me with that sad bitch face look, like I can change this situation. This is your fuckin’ fault. Your fucking fault, you...you _fuck.”_ Brandon shoves him again, then stumbles back to the bed and sits down, crossing his arms.

Luc is quiet for a moment, then he takes a long, shuddering breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and Brandon flops back down to his back on the bed. “Don’t cry, faggot,” Brandon punches out. He uses the word _fag_ all the time, to refer to himself, a reclaimed slur. But those extra three letters, well, Brandon's tone dripping with disgust makes it an obvious insult. _Soft. Bitch._ It’s the absolute worst thing Dubi can think to call PL, and it seems to get the job done. “Get out of here with that weak ass shit if you’re gonna.”

PL’s shuddery breath does turn into a sob. Brandon’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces, and one of those pieces seems to get lodged in his throat. He can’t breathe, watching Luc break down in his bedroom. But he can’t do anything else, either, he’s made his choices now. He just fucking wants PL to leave already.

Luc does compose himself, fairly quickly, scrubbing at his eyes with his palm. No tears have fallen yet, but they threaten, his eyes rimmed with red. “That’s fucked up,” he says, softly. “I’m fucking sorry this all happened, but...that’s really fucked up, Brandon.”

“Get the fuck out of here! Don’t talk to me about fucked up! _Get out!”_ Brandon whips a pillow at him, and Luc holds up his hand to deflect it away and then practically runs out of the room. A moment later, Brandon hears his front door open and then slam shut. The noise makes him jump a little. It feels very, very final.

There’s a long time where he can’t cry, just allows the empty feeling in his chest to consume him until he’s numb, actually numb, his fingers and lips and toes buzzing like they just got a shot of Novocaine and it’s kicking in. It feels like there’s something pressing down on his chest the whole while, making it hard to breathe, and he’s a little dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

The clock reads 0:39 when it all finally comes crashing down. Maybe he’s finally sober, maybe he finally grasps what he’s done, but for the second time in 24 hours he’s sobbing, making ugly noises into his pillow, unable to stop. He’s doing all of this to salvage his career, continue to play the game at a high level, but every extra month of his career means another month with this terrible loneliness. Dubi always wanted to play til he was 35, 36. That means four or five more years of this. Alone.

And he’s gonna do it, too, he’s going to deal with it, because playing in the NHL means more to him than anything else, even his love life. But the _idea_ of having to deal with it is crushing. Crushing in its unfairness. Crushing in its scope, the burden of it all.

Luc will keep his distance, now, he made sure of that. It will be easier to deal with PL when he’s aloof, cold, when PL _hates_ him. If Brandon had to go to the rink every day and see Luc smiling at him…

He’s not sure he could do it, not sure if he could keep his hands to himself. For the sake of his career, he had to break Luc’s heart. But seeing Luc crying in his bedroom, over _Dubi_ , his words, his actions - it almost killed him.

It's for the best, he thinks, a harsh burst of pain now to prevent a slow death from a thousand cuts later. Every time Luc touched him gently, giggled at his jokes, grinned at him, it would be another slice. He’s prevented that. He still feels worse than maybe he ever has. Perhaps he should have just _talked_ to Luc, like an adult. 

Too late, now. Brandon’s not good at talking about his feelings. But he’s real good at being an asshole, so that choice came pretty easy.

Dubi doesn’t know when he finally falls asleep. The clock reads 3:17 the last time he remembers seeing it, though.


	16. Chapter 16

Brandon awakes to his entire world shaking and an voice calling his name.

“Calm your shit!” comes the yelp when Brandon swings out a fist, blindly trying to stop the movement. He cracks an eye open; it’s Nicky, of course. “And get your ass up. Holy hell, Dubi, you smell _awful.”_

Brandon offers a noise that was _supposed_ to be ‘go away’, but ends up being an unintelligible, annoyed grunt.

“Oh, don’t give me that.” Nick sounds entirely too cheerful for - Brandon glances at the clock, holy hell, _6:30am?_ Practice isn’t until 9-fuckin’-30 - but at least he’s holding a cup of coffee, which he holds out as a peace offering. “C’mon, Dub, let’s go get a work out in.”

“What? No, fuck you, Fliggy. I wanna _sleep.”_ Brandon resolves to somehow find and take away Nick’s key to his place, because screw this.

“That wasn’t a question. We’re going. It’ll make you feel better. Anyway, you gotta keep those muscles, attract those hot guys, right?”

“Oh my _God,”_ Brandon shoves his head underneath the pillow. “You’re so embarrassing,” he groans, voice muffled in the sheets.

There’s a sudden shock of cold as the covers are pulled off. Thank God, the alcohol seems to have killed his typical morning wood, because that’s the last thing he needs. He can’t fight Nick off when he sets the coffee on the end table to free both his hands and drags Dubi out of bed. “Get naked,” Nick demands, shoving the coffee into his hand.

“Ooh, Fligs, didn’t know you were into that,” Brandon mutters with a large yawn, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s perfect, the right amount of cream and temperature. He can’t really appreciate that now, with this hangover and at this time of the morning, but later he’ll tell Nick how awesome it is that he took time to know Dubi’s coffee preference and make it happen.

“Pretty sure _you’re_ not into showering with your boxers on. But if you are…”

Being awake fucking sucks, and the shower makes it only slightly more tolerable. Nick shoves a Gatorade and some pain killers into his hand when he’s done, and makes him a protein shake, and then drives him to the rink. Brandon thinks about making a joke about being married, but he can’t figure out how to do it without making himself sound like an ungrateful asshole. Normally he wouldn’t care about that, but...well, he _does_ appreciate the hell out of Nicky. So he just stays silent and tries to will the throbbing in his brain to go away.

The nerves start as they get in the doorway of the gym, and Brandon can see there’s a little less than half the guys getting their own workout in before practice. He braces for weirdness, especially with Panarin banging out squats in the corner rack. But Artemi ignores him, and everything else seems pretty normal, although Dubi can tell that guys are trying too hard. He gets a quick workout in - feeling like he wants to puke the whole time - and the guys in the weight room are way too fucking cheerful towards him. From Wennberg’s large, bright smile, to Boone’s chipper _hey, buddy!_ or Murr’s handshake which turns into one of those manly bro hugs with a back pat, everyone’s doing their best to make things seem normal by acting very, very weird.

He keeps getting stopped by the boys on the way to his stall, whether to invite him to come out for a drink, or inquire about how he’s doing. By the time he finally gets in the door he stops dead, staring at his empty spot. Right between Matt Calvert and Pierre-Luc Dubois. Neither of them look up at him.

Fuck.

Calvy is just gonna have to deal, but surely Torts wouldn’t make Dubi sit next to PL for the rest of the season, right? Not after he broke them up. Brandon goes marching into Torts’ office, ignoring his wary look. “Dubi, if this is about yesterday - “

“No. Well, yes. I mean, kind of,” Brandon says, leaning over the desk. “It’s just, I’m sitting right next to PL. In the room.” Torts just looks at him, and Dubi can’t fathom why he’s not _getting it,_ so he keeps talking. “Like...the guy who I was dating? But now am not? Because of you? Sitting right next to him?”

“Sorry, did you want me to...what, move him?” Torts’ tone is incredulous, like Brandon’s asking to try out goaltending next game.

“Uhhh...yes? Do you really expect me to sit next to him now?”

“Fuck yes I do,” Torts says. “You’re both professionals, aren’t you? Didn’t you say there wouldn’t be a problem?”

“I did, but - “

“Then there’s no problem. I expect you to fuckin’ deal with it, Dubi.”

Brandon bites his lip hard enough that it hurts. Doing this would be nothing. Moving PL - or fuck, moving him - somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, would be the dumbest, easiest thing in the fucking world, and Torts is refusing. It’s punishment, he realizes now. Dubi gets to be just as uncomfortable as Tortorella.

“Fine,” he snarls, turning and stalking out the door before he can say something he regrets.

Like a rabbit hiding in a tunnel with a snake at one end and a fox at the other, Dubi’s on high-alert the entire time he gets dressed, resisting his body’s urge to flee the extremely uncomfortable situation. Matt, to his left, looks outwardly relaxed on the surface, face passive, but the fact that he hasn’t even tried to interact with Dubi tells Brandon just how uncomfortable he is. PL, on the other hand, throws on his equipment like it’s his gear that personally wronged him, slamming around his elbows, kicking at his shins. At one point he sets his helmet down so hard it crunches, and Brandon winces, both at the sound and what that noise means to Luc’s current emotional state.

He remains on alert during practice for any indication that the coaching staff is treating him differently. But there’s nothing - Brandon gets PK time with the first unit as he usually does, has a discussion with one of the assistants about his board work. Normal, everyday stuff. Even the boys he knows are uncomfortable, Calvy, JJ, a few others, it’s all back to how it used to be, on the ice. The passes they make to him are just as crisp and clean as they were a few days ago. They still give him the puck when he’s open. Thank fucking God for that. Dubi supposes they recognize that even if they don’t wanna be his _friend_ anymore, he can still help the team on the ice regardless of who he wants to fuck.

Seth Jones grabs him in a headlock before they leave the ice as practice is winding down. “You’re coming out with us,” he says with a grin. It’s not a question, but Brandon protests anyway. 

“Nah, Jonesy, I don’t wanna - “

“Aw, you act like that’s up for debate? You’re coming out with us, man.”

~~~~~

Brandon does go out with them, for an early dinner. He’s squished into a back booth at Martini, with Seth Jones, Boone Jenner, Ryan Murray, and Scott Harrington. Conspicuously absent from the typical crew is Josh Anderson. “What, Andy couldn’t make it?” Dubi asks, tone light.

“Nah, he something to do,” Seth says, and he doesn’t sound concerned, like maybe Andy really _did_ have something to do instead of just not wanting to hang out with Brandon. Seth’s a pretty good liar, though, Dubi knows this from the practical jokes, so he’s not quite convinced.

Brandon answers a lot of the same questions that Cam had, and he’s already sick of ‘em. How he’s doing (shitty, but he doesn’t say that), does Dubi know everyone’s got his back cause they totally _do_ (nah, they fuckin’ don’t, but Brandon nods and smiles), how much did it suck keeping the secret (a lot - he tells the truth on that).

“Dubi,” Boone leans forward, eyes bright and eager. “So I met this girl the other day and I actually really like her, and we’re actually gonna go on a date - “

“You got a girl to agree to a date?” Scotty blurts out, and Boone shoves him.

_“Anyway_ , I was wondering maybe I can Snap you the outfits I was thinking of wearing and you could, y’know, give me your opinion?”

Ryan has his face buried in his hands, now, clearly exasperated with his best friend. “Bam,” he sighs, “Just because Dubi is gay doesn’t mean he wants to give you fashion advice. Or even that he _likes_ fashion.”

“But he does like fashion,” Boone shoots back. “Just look at him.”

Brandon has to admit, Bam has a point, he _does_ look stylish - but that’s not so much a gay thing, Dubi thinks, as a New York City rubbed off on him kind of thing. Everyone looked good there. Brandon wanted to look good, too.

“That’s beside the point,” Ryan argues. “Did you ask him for his opinion on fashion before you knew he was gay? Huh?”

“I didn’t have any dates lined up before this!”

“Jesus, boys,” Brandon holds up his hands. He sort of feels like Boone is too dumb to recognize the nuances of stereotyping, and he doesn’t mean any harm, so whatever, he’ll play along. “I’ll give you my opinion if you want it, Bam. Your ugly mug needs all the help you can get, so yeah, count me in.”

Boone throws a smug look in Ryan’s direction, who rolls his eyes.

Halfway through dinner, Seth notes that Ryan’s new girlfriend - an Ohio State _freshman_ , for which he is getting endless shit about - probably has a couple gay friends as potential prospects. “You think I wanna bang a college student?” Dubi asks, and the boys smirk. “Alright, fuck you guys, I know he’s 19. That’s not like my type or anything, though. I ain’t like Murr here.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan mumbles around a bite of pasta.

“Look, Cam talked about setting me up, too. Just don’t, alright. If shit goes south with Murr and his girl, what’s the big scandal? Ooh, Ryan Murray of the Blue Jackets fucking an 18 year old sorority chick, is anyone gonna give a shit about that? Hell no. But Brandon Dubinsky of the Blue Jackets banging an Ohio State _frat boy?_ Yeah, that’s a big fuckin’ deal, and it ain’t like college kids are the most discreet. So just - nah, boys. Forgot it.”

Then Boone - sweet, oblivious, idiot Boone - lights up and points his fork at Brandon. “What about another NHLer? Like on another team? Torts can’t say no then, right?”

“What other guys in the league are gay?” Scotty asks, and Dubi’s blood runs cold.

“Jon Toews is like, 29, and not married,” Seth says.

“We’re not doing this,” Brandon mumbles, but nobody pays attention to him.

“Fuck, Crosby’s like 30 and he’s not married,” Boone says, and the table laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever fucking heard, that Dubi would be interested in _Crosby._

“We’re not _doing this,”_ Brandon snaps, and that shuts them up. “We’re not going to play this game. It’s not right, okay?” He and Luc chatted about this, sometimes, but it felt different when it was them, two gay guys talking about other potential gay guys in a safe space. Here, his hackles are raised. He doesn’t want straight men churning the rumor mill about who else might be gay.

“Sorry,” Seth says, with a frown. “Really, Dubi, we’re sorry.”

Brandon pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. They don’t get it. “I don’t want to do this because...I don’t want other teams doing it, to me,” he explains. “I don’t wanna be on the gay gossip any more than anyone else does. So let’s just not, okay?”

Brandon wonders how long he’s got, before he’s included in these idle who’s-gay discussions around the league. Three months, he figures. Maybe he has three months until those rumors start. If he’s lucky.

~~~~~

Looking back, Dubi’s idea that he has three months till he hits the rumor mill is laughable. Fuck, he barely gets three _days._

First, however, is their home game against the Sabres. Brandon gets in to Nationwide on the earlier side of on-time, because getting dressed before Calvy and PL come in sounds pretty great. But as he walks into the locker room and catches sight of his jersey hanging up, he pauses, staring at his stall. The upper left side of his jersey is blank, just blue, no A, for the first time in over four years.

“Sup, Dub,” Nick bumps his shoulder, coming out of nowhere, and he’s drinking this weird green smoothie that the nutritionists make for him before every game. It smells terrible and it makes his breath smell worse; Dubi crinkles his nose.

“That shit is so gross,” he complains, shaking his head and stepping into the room.

“You’re here early.”

“Yeah, well.” He takes a glance around the room to see who got his A. He sort of expected it to be Jonesy, but no, it’s stitched onto Jack Johnson’s jersey. One of the boys that is visibly uncomfortable with the gay thing gets his fucking alternate on top of it all? Cherry on top.

“Oh, shit,” Nick mutters. He must have followed Brandon’s gaze to Jack’s jersey, because there’s a friendly arm slung around his shoulders a moment later. “You know you’re still a leader in this room,” he says, firmly. “Letter or not, you’re still important as hell to this team. And to me.”

“Your breath smells like asshole, Fliggy,” Brandon mutters, wiggling out of his grip. He has an uncomfortable lump in his throat, _again;_ he fucking hates feeling like he’s going to burst into tears and it’s been a regular occurrence these past few days. This time he’s not sure if it’s from the visual reminder that his coach doesn’t trust him anymore, or Nick’s genuine assurances. Either way, he steps up to his stall, keeps his head facing the wall and busies himself with uselessly relacing his skates while his eyes burn threateningly.

“You would know,” Nick shoots back, teasingly, and Dubi throws up a middle finger, not turning around. “But seriously, I mean it. Nothin’ to hang your head about, man.”

Tell that to the press, Brandon thinks. They’re gonna be on him like fucking vultures. There’s already a number of questions about why he missed practice the other day that he cannot answer except for the old “personal reasons” canard.

The locker room is a little awkward. The guys definitely notice the change, and Cam is almost immediately at Nicky’s locker, whispering and looking personally insulted. But it’s a tough position to be in. You don’t want to insinuate Jack’s _not_ worthy of the ‘A’, after all.

Dubi catches Jack and David Savard low-fiving as they pull on their jerseys and wonders what it’s about. Is it in regards to his new leadership position? Does that mean David doesn’t think that Brandon deserves it? Or is he just happy for JJ, a fellow defenseman that he’s closer friends with? Or are they just being friendly? Dubi turns away from the scene and jerkily twists off a Gatorade lid to drink. No sense dwelling on it.

It’s a weird sort of warm ups. He usually ignores the fans gathered around the glass, but today it seems like every time he looks up, some fan is pointing at him and gesturing to their breast, talking to their buddies. _Hey you guys see that? Dubinsky doesn’t have an ‘A’ anymore. Y’think he’s gonna be traded soon?_

At one point, he and Matt Calvert lock eyes, and that’s usually their cue to skate towards each other and jump up, colliding in mid-air. Dubi doesn’t know when their tradition started but it’s at least three years old. He’s not the most superstitious guy, but Calvy can be, and Brandon thinks he sees a softening of Matt’s expression. He reads it that Matt wants to jump, just like they always do, so he skates hard towards Calvert and hops up into the air - 

And nearly crashes to the ice as the big body he’s expecting to meet in mid-air isn’t there. Calvert deftly side-steps Dubi’s attempt, and Brandon just barely manages to land on his inside edge and stumble to a stop. He glances back towards Matt, but Calvert already has a puck and is gliding in towards Bob for a warm-up shot. Someone gives him a sympathetic tap on the shins with his stick - it’s Seth. His D partner, Zach Werenski, is standing nearby with a compassionate look on his face, too. “Don’t worry about it,” he barks at Z, who scrambles away after Seth.

Fuck everyone’s _pity_ , Dubi thinks. A couple more guys come up to express sympathy or anger about him losing the alternate - Scotty, Murr, Boone, Wenny, a few others - but they get the point quickly at Brandon’s short nod, narrowed eyes and clipped thank-you in response. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Unfortunately, it’s brought up again by Torts before the game, at the very end of the lineup rundown. “You boys may have noticed we’ve made a leadership change,” he announces. “With or without that letter, Dubi’s still a leader here. We just thought it was the right move to let him worry a little more about his own game. Any questions, you see me.”

There are no questions, and Brandon doesn’t lift his gaze from the floor, doesn’t want to look at anyone, especially not Torts. He supposes the ‘worry about his game’ excuse is better than the _real_ reason of ‘you were fucking your teammate and that’s not cool’. The locker room has a beat of eerie silence before Nick speaks up. “Well, c’mon boys, let’s get this one!”

The game, at least, goes well. The line combinations quickly devolve into what the team calls the ‘Torts blender’, which is to say, there’s no real line combos and Torts just sort of sends out what he feels in his gut is gonna work at that particular moment. Brandon ends up on the ice with Cam and Boone as his wings, Seth and Z back on defense, and they have this fuckin’ sweet sequence which leads to Dubi touch passing it to Seth for a goal. Brandon’s crushed in a hug between the four other guys, nobody shying away from touching him, and it’s the first time in days that Dubi feels normal. Cam is giving his high-pitched little _woo_ s in his ear and Boone is swearing up a happy streak behind him and Seth is yelling, _fucking great pass man_ , and Brandon remembers why he does what he does, why being alone is worth it, for this shit right here.

Calvert scores, too. It’s an ugly, workhorse kind of goal, like all Matty Calvert goals tend to be, but he’s in a good mood after the game. “Nice fuckin’ goal,” Brandon tells him, and Matt glances over, offers a curt nod.

“Thanks, man,” he says, the first real thing he’s said to Dubi since he found out.

It’s a start, he supposes.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder, Dubi's actions do not reflect author beliefs. Don't think about driving drunk, don't use the word tranny, and us bisexual people definitely exist!

Brandon evades the media post-game, but can’t escape them the next day after practice. He thinks back to his useless meeting with Jackets PR a few days back and tries to echo their suggested words as the media asks their questions, about how the conversation with Torts went, and whether losing the A affects him. Of course it does, he tells them. He’s only human. Then they transition into the shit season he’s been having and talk about that, so needless to say it’s not one of his favorite interviews. The worst is when one of the reporters talks about how he thinks the _biggest_ concern is that Brandon hasn’t taken any penalty minutes, yet, and he’s proud of himself when he doesn’t tell the guy he’s a dipshit. He stays calm; PR and Torts should be happy with that, at least.

Afterwards, he politely defers when Z invites him over to play video games that night. “I know you’re good at Chel,” Z goads him. “C’mon, I’ll have a few boys over and we want you there. We’ll kick your ass, old man.”

“Who’s going?”

“Nuti, Sedsy, Bjorky,” Z tells him; no surprise there, that’s Zach’s little team clique. “Maybe PL,” he finishes, and oh no, Brandon’s not fucking dumb enough to poke that dragon. He’s a little flabbergasted, too, that Z thinks it’s cool for PL and Dubi to be together right now, but then he remembers he’s telling everyone it was _no big deal_ and he presumes Luc is saying the same thing. Little do they know.

“You just want me to buy beer for you, admit it.” Z scrunches up his nose; he hates jokes about his age, being reminded that he’s only 20. “Sorry bud, not tonight. Maybe some other time?” Zach’s never invited him over before. Brandon feels way too old to hang out with his little group. It feels almost like a pity invite, so even if PL weren’t potentially going, he’d say hell no.

Zach doesn’t push. Brandon goes home and drinks the rest of the beer in his house and watches the Penguins play the Jets. The Jackets get the Jets tomorrow on a back-to-back, so Brandon tells himself it’s just scouting, but really he stares at Sid and wonders if he should call him. Crosby’s the only one that would understand what he’s going through and it’s fucking pathetic, really.

He’s never actually _called_ Sid, anyway, they’ve only texted. Crosby would probably have a fucking heart attack to see Brandon’s number pop up. Maybe he should just text, then. But what the fuck would he say? _You were right, about that texting shit?_

And then what, listen to Crosby gloat? Actually, no, Sid wouldn’t gloat, not like Brandon would. If the situation were reversed, Brandon would hold it over his head forever, chirp Croz every opportunity he got, revel in the fact that he was right and Sid was wrong. But Sid isn’t like that. Instead, Crosby would get that dumbfuck Captain voice on and talk very seriously about why it’s wrong to bang your rookies and you have to be more careful, you can never use too much caution, and seriously you just can’t take advantage of your rookies what are you thinking? Crosby would disapprove in about 200 different ways, keeping that tone your parents use when they’re _not angry, just disappointed._

Fuck that. Anyway, Brandon is _fine._ He doesn’t need to talk about his feelings. He’s not that fucking queer.

~~~~~

Friday is Hockey Fights Cancer night, so Nick is _amped._ Brandon knows he lost his mother to cancer, and these nights are always special to him and therefore the entire Blue Jackets team. Dubi dons his lavender jersey for warm ups and doesn’t try to do the jump with Calvert, who ignores him, still.

It’s the new normal. Brandon tries to convince himself it doesn’t hurt anymore.

The game, at least, goes great. He doesn’t get any points but he’s on the ice for both Jackets goals and a crucial part of them, even if it doesn’t reflect it on the scoresheet. He stands by the bench and fist bumps all the guys as they walk back to the locker room. It’s something he’s always done, although he skipped it for his first game after being outed. If he’s being honest with himself, he was afraid how many boys would just blow him off and not tap his glove, and that would kill him. But he makes himself stand there, determined that he’s not going to be _afraid_ , and surprisingly, everyone gives him a bump as they get off.

Granted, PL actively grimaces at the gesture - which is to be expected - the normal goofy smile from Calvert isn’t there (he carefully doesn’t meet Dubi’s eye) and Jack gives him the lightest fist bump he’s ever gotten, jerking his hand back quickly. A couple other guys don’t look at him, either. But at least everyone makes an effort.

What shocks Brandon, though, is Artemi Panarin. Panarin is last off the ice, minus Bobrovsky, and he grabs Brandon in a quick hug before getting off the ice. A _hug?_ Bob grins and gives him a hug, as well. That isn’t unusual, but Panarin has barely looked at him since he came out, much less touched him. “What was that?” Brandon yells in Bob’s ear, over the crowd noise and music.

“He’s trying,” Bob says, patting his back.

They head off to St Louis right after, and it’s the first time since Dubi got yanked out of the closet that they’ve been on an away game. Most of the boys change out of their suits into sweats for the plane ride and just like he’s been _extremely_ careful to do in the showers, Brandon keeps his eyes down and buried in his iPad. He doesn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.

He should have known Cam wouldn’t let it be. “Hey,” he hears a voice, and it’s Cam, with his shirt unbuttoned and his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He winks and strikes a playfully seductive pose and Brandon’s mouth goes a little drier. “Sexy, huh?”

“You’re the ugliest fucking dude on this plane, Cammer,” Brandon tells him, and throws his mostly-empty Gatorade bottle at him. Cam deftly side-steps and the bottle keeps flying, nearly hitting PL, who’s still sitting across the aisle from him and Nicky.

“What the fuck,” PL snarls, having been half-asleep, glaring daggers in Brandon’s direction.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and Luc picks up the bottle and flings it back. Cam snags it out of midair and hands it back to Brandon with a small frown that says he _might_ be reconsidering that the whole Dubinsky-Dubois union was ‘just a fling’. “Go get dressed, ya putz,” he tells Cam, to cover up, and then pretends to fall asleep before he can come back and ask any questions.

~~~~~

They lose in St Louis, come back and win at home, and then it’s Halloween. All anyone can talk about during practice is the party, which is almost a relief because for the first time, not a single person makes a comment or mention to Dubi about the whole gay thing, or losing the ‘A’, or any of the crap that’s happened recently. It’s almost _normal,_ albeit with a still-aloof Matt Calvert on one side of him and a still-hurt PLD on the other.

The skate tomorrow is optional, so Brandon knows the party is going to get _sloppy._ Guys get drunk, they let down their guard. Alcohol lubricates opinions, and guys tend to say shit they wouldn’t when they’re sober. Dubi is prepared for a very interesting night.

He’s decided to be the Joker, this year. PL wanted to be Batman when he found out, practically begged to, but the idea of _matching costumes_ made Dubi break out into a cold sweat. It’s not that unusual - Brandon knows for a fact that Josh, Seth, Boone and Alex are going as the fucking Teletubbies, of all things - but it was way too much like a couples thing to do. Of course, then PL turned around and agreed to a matching costume with Savy, although he wouldn’t say what it is. He hopes the coming out didn’t fuck that up, for Luc’s sake.

Brandon thinks hard about pre-gaming, maybe getting a little drunk first and then taking an Uber over, but he resists the urge and slathers on the white makeup and temporary green hair dye. It’s a pain in the ass and his bathroom is a million colors it shouldn’t be when he’s done. He smiles into the mirror and his ghoulishly red lips grin back at him. “Why so serious,” he mutters to himself.

Dubi arrives fashionably late and the first thing he sees is guys in fursuits. A duck, a chipmunk, and an owl, and he can’t even see who’s in the damn things. “Did I accidentally come to a furry convention?” he wonders out loud, and suddenly there is something short and yellow next to his arm. A minion. He can’t see into _this_ costume, either.

“I know, fuckin’ weirdos,” the voice says, and it’s Cam, of course it’s Cam. Who else would be short enough to pull off a minion?

“Cammer, holy shit,” he laughs. “Fucking perfect, short stuff.” Brandon spots Cam’s wife, Natalie, who is also dressed like a minion, just a...slightly sexier version. That’s pretty much a theme, he notices, as he glances around the room. He wonders, if he had a boyfriend, what the guys would do if his man came as a sexy Batman. That’s a thing, right? It has to be. (After some later Google adventures, he finds out it definitely _is,_ although none are sold in...conventional...stores.)

“You see your ex-boy over there?”

“Don’t fuckin’ call him that,” Brandon says, but he does spot PL across the room, and _holy shit._

He and Savard are dressed like the Dick In a Box guys, and it’s pretty amazing. He’ll tell Savy so, for sure. But PL…

 _He has to hate you,_ Dubi reminds himself with a clenched jaw. Really, he’d prefer it if they were just neutral towards each other, neither friends nor enemies. But he’s not sure PL could stay in that mindset, couldn’t help shifting neutral into friendly, and then further and further until it’s another problem. So he’ll just...admire the costume from afar.

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” Brandon declares, patting Cam on the head. He hates being patted like a child, always has, but his minion arms are too short to slap Dubi’s hands away like he normally does. Brandon smirks and resolves to do that as much as possible, tonight.

It’s a much more normal Halloween party than he first envisioned, although he’s well aware that guys aren’t drunk yet. But even pleasantly buzzed, it could be mistaken for any other year. Everyone chirps and compliments everyone else on their costumes, new terrible nicknames are made up for everyone, everyone tries to surreptitiously check out everyone else’s wives and girlfriends in their skimpy outfits. (“Janelle wins the sexiest this year,” Brandon murmurs to Nicky with a smirk. Nick is Austin Powers, and his wife is the agent he falls in love with in that skimpy silver dress, Brandon doesn’t remember her name. Nick elbows him in the stomach but beams.)

Brandon’s hanging out with the Teletubbies squad when everyone finally gets drunk enough to relax and say stupid shit. Josh Anderson is making an effort to hang out, even as his leg jiggles endlessly, nervously, while sitting next to Brandon. Josh is dressed as Tinky-Winky, the purse-toting Teletubby, and Dubi definitely notices the quick glances his way every time someone makes a joke about it. He’s not bothered by it, so he just keeps drinking and smiles.

But then conversation turns to his own costume, and Josh sticks his foot in his mouth. “Goddamn that’s a bad makeup job,” Seth points out, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Josh pipes up. “You’d think you, of all people, would be better at it.” Brandon rears back like he’s been smacked, and the guys stare at Josh, who shrugs defensively. “What?!”

“Hell, Andy,” Alex mutters. “You’re an idiot sometimes.”

Brandon takes a deep breath. “I’m gay, Andy, I’m not a drag queen or a tranny. Actually, did you know there’s a percentage of straight dudes that do drag? So grab that purse, Tinky-Winky, and go fuckin’ kill it out there, girl.”

The guys burst into laughter, but Josh looks...well, _gay panicked,_ so Brandon sort of regrets it immediately. “Ha,” Andy says, stiffly. “I’m gonna go get another drink.” He flees the room before anyone can say anything else.

“Sorry, Dubi,” Seth pats him on the shoulder. “He’s as much of an idiot as Bam here, sometimes.”

“Hey,” Boone protests with a pout. “At least I’d never imply that Dubi likes _makeup_ because he’s _gay.”_

“Wouldn’t you?” Seth asks, pretending to think. “I’m not so sure about that, Bam. You _are_ a dumbass.”

“Oh, fuck you - “

Brandon’s phone buzzes as the two playfully argue, and he frowns when he sees who it’s from. _Brandon Saad?_ Saader played for the Jackets last year, traded to Chicago for Panarin (who, by the way, is dressed as some sort of Popeye sailor tonight, and looks like the gayest goddamn Village Person that Dubi has ever seen, which he thinks is _very_ ironic). But Brandon was never really that close to Saader, so this is...weird.

 _Yo,_ the text says. _How u doin?_

 _fine,_ he texts back. _how u been_

_Good. Chi’s been great. For u, I just mean everyones taking it cool?_

Brandon blinks at the text. What in the hell? Taking it cool? Does that mean what he thinks it means?

The conversation has switched, at some point, because Boone is just bitching about being too warm in his costume now, so Brandon takes the opportunity to slip away. _um. what do u mean,_ he types as he swings by the bar to grab a fresh drink.

There’s three dots for a long time. Then: _Shit. I thought u knew. Maybe we should talk. In the morning sometime? I gotta go to bed, game tomorrow._

Fucking shit, Saader. Brandon clenches his jaw, but instead answers: _yeah. in the morning then. nite_

“Hey, you wanna do shots?” Scotty’s holding out some brownish liquid that smells like cinnamon even from a few feet away. Brandon hates Fireball, but he takes it with a nod.

“Keep em coming,” he says.

As it turns out, Brandon’s not the only one taking shots that night. He drinks until he’s uncomfortable, then finally ambles to the restroom to break the seal, knowing this is the start of pissing about 10 more times tonight. It’s worth it; the alcohol has soothed away his discomfort. He’s thus far managed to stay away from PL, avoiding any awkwardness.

It can’t last forever. He’s washing his hands when PL bursts in, stopping and staring at Brandon, blinking dumbly. Dubi can immediately tell he’s drunk, even without saying a word. Glassy eyes, overly exaggerated shocked expression, a slight sway in his stance. “What the fuck d’you want?” he demands, and Brandon can finally hear his accent, which is all but non-existent when he’s sober.

“What do _I_ want? You’re in the bathroom, Luc. I was here first. Look, I’m just washing my hands, don’t even - “

“Don’t even _what?”_ PL takes an aggressive, stumbly step towards him, eyes narrowed. “I’m not the asshole, here. Oh, y’know, it’s real perfect you’re the Joker, you know, because you’re a goddamn sociopath.”

Brandon’s eye roll is real, and not just meant to annoy PL, although it clearly accomplishes that as well. “You’re a whiny little bitch when you’re drunk, Luc. It’s not my fault you fell in love with me after a month, okay?”

PL’s hostile expression goes scrunched-up, then slides off his face and is replaced by sadness. He looks staggered, and Brandon just wants to gather him up and never let him go. “Fuck off. You hurt me,” he chokes out. “So bad, Brandon.”

“I - “ Dubi turns away, coughs into his hands to prevent PL from seeing his own face crumbling. When he turns back, the mask is firmly on again. “You have a lot to learn about being gay, PL. There’s no _love_ , there’s just dick. Okay? And yours is just as good as anyone else’s.”

PL suddenly draws himself up to his full height. The corners of his mouth curl up in a smug half-smile, looking a weird mixture of sad and smirky. “Dick? You know, I don’t need you. I can get any dick I want. I banged the hottest dude the other day, you know that?”

“That’s nice,” Brandon says, trying to find a way to step around PL, who is still taking up nearly the entire doorway. He feels a weird pang of - is that _jealousy?_ \- in his chest. He’s not sure if he’s jealous of PL or the hook up. “I hope you used a condom. You shouldn’t just trust a guy if he says he’s clean.”

“I trusted _you.”_

 _Oh_. This conversation, the one Brandon had been meaning to have with PL in better times. Well, he wanted Luc to continue to hate him, right? “Yeah, that was dumb,” he says. “Don’t ever do that again.”

PL’s jaw tumbles open. “Did you...give me something?”

“No - “

“You fucking _gave_ me something - “

“No!” 

PL’s having a little drunken meltdown, now, and he’s _loud,_ and someone is going to come check on them if he keeps it up, so Brandon steps forward and grabs his wrist. A mistake - Luc snarls and reverses them, throwing Dubi against the wall and keeping his shoulders pressed there. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, and Brandon figures it’s a bad time to point out that _Luc_ is the one touching _him._

It’s also awfully inconvenient that he finds this little scenario, being pinned up against the wall by an angry PL, sort of, well, hot. He stuffs down the flash of desire. “I didn’t give you anything, Luc,” he says, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “But I am telling you that if you’re finding randos on Grindr, you need to be smart about it.” PL stares at him, chest heaving from breathing hard, not saying anything, so Brandon tries again. “Let me go and go piss, Luc.”

“I hate you,” he hisses, but steps back, releasing Brandon’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Dubi whispers, swallowing away the lump in his throat. He knows that, he _knows_ , and it’s how it has to be, but hearing Luc say it is a kick to the gut. “I’m sor - “ it tumbles out before he can stop it, but he bites the rest of the sentence off, _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_. Luc frowns, obviously a little confused, and what else can Brandon do but get the fuck out of the bathroom before he says something else monumentally stupid. On his way out, he practically runs into Nick.

“Hey,” Fliggy says, the greeting sliding from cheerful to confused as he catches sight of Brandon. “Dubi, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Fine. Just. Just. Just fuckin’ Fireball shots giving me heartburn.”

“Getting old sucks,” Nick agrees, clapping him on the shoulder. “But you’re doing okay, otherwise?”

Brandon thinks if he’s asked one more time if he’s _doing okay_ , he’s going to scream. “Fine,” he grits out. “I think I’m going to head home.”

“Not like that, you’re not. Not driving, anyway.”

“I’m not drunk.”

Nick fixes him with an unimpressed look. “You can either call a ride, or you’re coming home with us and can sleep in the guest bed.”

Spending a car ride back with Nick and Janelle, making small talk, sounds like the seventh ring of hell right now. “I’ll call an Uber.”

“Good choice,” Nick says, and moves past him to the bathroom. Brandon thinks very seriously about turning that into a lie and driving home - he’s _not_ drunk, he feels just fine, maybe just a little buzzed and he can handle that - but decides he doesn’t want to tempt fate, which seems to be firmly holding him in the ‘fuck up’ territory. Sighing, he drags out his phone and opens the app.

~~~~~

Brandon sets his alarm for early, even though he knows he’s going to have at least a little hangover. Despite being former teammates with the guy, he has no clue if Saader is an early bird, and he also doesn’t know if the Blackhawks have morning skate or not. There’s no fucking way he’s going another day without figuring exactly what Saad meant in his text.

_yo lmk when u can talk_

_After morning skate,_ comes the response, and the only good thing about it is that Brandon can go back to sleep, thank God. He turns his phone volume up, high as it can go, for texts and phone calls, and passes back out.

He sort of wishes he hadn’t done it when the phone call comes through, a few hours later. Brandon feels groggy, like spiderwebs have set up in his brain, and he’d really prefer to enter into this conversation a little more together. But he’ll take what he can get. “Saader,” he answers the phone, trying to project his typical cocky cheerfulness. “Sup, bud.”

“Hey, Dubi.” Saad sounds a little more reserved than he normally does. That’s the _bad-news-coming_ tone of voice, Brandon can tell. Goddamnit. “How are you?”

“Well, that remains to be seen, I guess, depending on what news you’re about to lay on me.”

“Oh.” Brandon can hear a harsh intake of breath. “Getting right into it, huh?”

“Don’t see why not. Tell me what’s going on, man.”

There’s a long beat of silence, long enough that Brandon has to lift the phone away from his ear to check that they’re still connected. “I overheard one of the guys on my team talking,” he says, carefully, “And heard enough that he ended up telling me everything. I guess you were found out with a teammate, and got outed.”

He has to try really, really, _really_ hard not to scream obscenities right into Saader’s ear. “How does ‘one of the guys’ on your team _know,_ ” Brandon grits out, “and who the fuck is this guy.”

“Well, I don’t really know how - ”

Yeah, that’s bullshit, Brandon can tell immediately. “Saader, don’t fuckin’ do this to me, alright? I deserve to know."

Saad heaves a sigh. “Look, are you gonna be cool about this if I tell you?”

“Yeah,” Brandon lies.

“Alright, man, well...I don’t know exactly what happened, but it was Toews. I mean, he wouldn’t say for sure, but he was talking to someone on the phone about how to be a good teammate for you. Okay? And I overheard enough that he had to tell me. But he figured it’d be fine, since we played together, and - look, Dubi, it’s cool. You should be able to live your life how you want. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Brandon bites back a shitty response. “Yeah, thanks for the support,” he says, and it probably comes out a little too sarcastic. “So you’re telling me Panarin called Toews - “

“Whoa, I never said that.”

“Who the fuck else is calling Jonathan goddamn Toews to figure out how not to be an asshole to gay people except the Russian ex-Blackhawk, Saader?!”

“Uh. Well, um.”

Yeah, that’s right, stutter, Brandon thinks, a little meanly. He _knows_ he’s right. But if it’s just Saader and Toews - well, he does sort of trust Toews to not be a gossip. God, that guy has no fucking personality at all, but the plus side is, he seems like he’d be a secret-keeper. “Does anyone else know?”

Saader clears his throat, uncomfortably. “One other guy.”

“Who?”

“Uh, well - “

_“Saader!”_

“Kane,” he blurts out, then makes a regretful hissing noise, like he hadn’t meant to admit to it. “But look, Pat’s cool too. He gets a bad rap in the press, but he’s really awesome. And, uh, he’s really close with Tazer, Toews I mean, and he’s, Tazer is, uh... _understanding_ of what you’re going through.”

Brandon blinks, momentarily speechless. “Are you using some weird euphemism to tell me that Jonathan Toews is gay?”

“Well, right now he has a girlfriend, but.”

“Oh,” Brandon snorts. “He’s one of those so-called bisexual guys. Fake fags. Yeah, okay, tell him to call me when he nuts up and figures out he actually just likes dick, okay?”

“Uh, excuse me?” Saader actually sounds pissed, now. Well, not surprising, Brandon is talking shit about his captain, at this point. “Really, Dubi? I’m trying to help you out here, and you’re…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole, but that shouldn’t be a surprise to you, Saader. It’s just...it’s been a long couple days, okay?”

“Right. I get it.” Saad’s voice has softened now in sympathy. “I’m sorry, man. Nobody likes to be outed. It sucks.”

 _What do you know about that,_ he wants to snap, but instead he says, “Yeah, it does,” and then, “I really appreciate the call. I gotta go now, though. Shit to do.”

“Just remember I got your back, okay?”

“Sure thing. Thanks,” Dubi says, and clicks the call off. He definitely does have something to do.

He needs to find out exactly where _Artemi fucking Panarin_ lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Blue Jackets Halloween photos!](http://www.neosportsinsiders.com/blue-jackets-halloween-fun-go-costumes/)


	18. Chapter 18

It doesn’t take Brandon too terribly long to find where Panarin lives. He vaguely remembers the team texting about his new place as the season got closer, and a couple guys went to this little housewarming gathering he had; Brandon was out of town. But still, the address is there, buried under months worth of chirping and in-jokes in their mass text.

Brandon remembers with a spike of irritation that his car is still at the venue that hosted their Halloween party, so he calls another Uber to retrieve it. The asshole driver is a hockey fan and doesn’t shut _up_ about the Jackets, which is the last thing Dubi wants to think about, but he still smiles politely and signs an autograph and waits til the guy is driving away before muttering, “Jerkoff,” under his breath.

He’s amped and jittery on the drive over to Panarin’s condo. It’s a nice place, down by the river. If this were New York, it would have a doorman he could bribe to let him in. As it is, he smashes the little intercom button and waits, grinding his teeth impatiently.

It’s a long moment, but he’s greeted by a jumble of what he assumes is a Russian greeting, then a thickly accented, “Hello?”

“It’s Dubi,” he says. “We gotta talk.”

“Dubi?” There’s a distinct note of shock in the question, a long pause, and then: “We talk?”

“Lemme in, Bread.”

“Uh. Okay. You come, 416.”

Brandon rolls his eyes. Yeah, no shit, I’m pressing the button to your condo, I _know_ which number it is, he thinks. Idiot. The outer door clicks open, and Brandon holds on to that irritation as he takes the stairs, two at a time, too much adrenaline to sit and wait for an elevator.

Panarin already has his door cracked open, peeking out in curious expectation, as Brandon approaches. “This - surprise,” he says, haltingly, holding back a little dog who is wagging its tail furiously at the approaching guest.

“It shouldn’t be,” Dubi snaps, pushing the door behind him firmly shut and ignoring the dog’s frantic barks as he grabs ahold of Artemi’s lapels, gives him a little shake. Panarin’s expression goes from curious to frightened in a matter of seconds. He tries to step back but Brandon’s still got him in a close hold. “Don’t fuckin’ look so shocked, _Bread._ You know what you did, you fuckin’ know - why did you do it? Huh?!”

Artemi gapes at him, allowing himself to be shaken like a ragdoll. “I don’t...I don’t…”

“You fuckin’ called Jonathan goddamn Toews and _told him_ about me. Remember Nick said it doesn’t leave the fucking room? Or are you too goddamn stupid to understand that?”

Panarin’s fear seems to have deepened to a confused terror, and Brandon’s not sure whether he’s understood a damn word he’s said. Speaking slowly and clearly enunciating is just not happening right now in Brandon’s state of mind, so instead he takes a deep breath and lets Artemi go, and yanks out his phone. “Hold on,” he growls to Panarin, punching in Sergei Bobrovsky’s number.

Bob answers on the third ring. “Dubi?” he sounds curious, but pleased. Talking on the phone isn’t something they really do. “Buddy, hello! How are you?”

“Could be better, Bob,” he replies, trying very hard to keep his voice even, his tone calm. Even so, he can hear his voice quavering a little, shaking from the effort not to explode in righteous fury like he wants to. Everything is so much easier on the ice - he could just beat the living fuck out of Panarin and be done with it. That would be frowned upon with teammates, unfortunately.

“What happen?”

“Well, I’m with your boy here. Bread,” Dubi says, staring at Artemi, who is now knelt down and petting his little dog in nervous strokes. “You wanna know what he did?”

“What?”

“He snitched, Bob.”

“Snitch…?” There’s a question mark clearly at the end of the word as Bobrovsky tries to remember the word.

“He called up the Blackhawks, Toews specifically, and told him all about me. And Luc, I assume, but definitely me, because I got a call from Saader who knew my little secret. Bob, this is a fuckin’ _problem.”_

“Let me speak to him,” Sergei says, and Dubi thrusts the phone at Panarin, who gingerly takes it and spits a string of Russian into the phone. Panarin’s dog trots over as they’re talking, wanting attention, and what the hell. Brandon leans down and offers some scratches; it takes his mind off the rapid-fire Russian chattering in front of him as he waits for answers.

After what seems like an hour, but is probably less than five minutes, Panarin offers the phone back to Brandon. “Um. Can you put...speaker?”

Dubi snatches it back up and clicks the little speakerphone icon. “So how pissed should I be, Bob,” he snarls, staring at Artemi, who seems to understand that phrase and cringes.

“Just calm down, Dubi,” Bob is trying for a soothing voice, and it’s _almost_ working. “Temi never meant for this to get out. He only wanted to tell one person, and that was Toews. And not tell him in the sense of - oh, like, here’s secret. Ask for advice, you know? Like, how to be a friend?”

“Tell him that being a _friend_ means keeping a secret!”

Artemi flinches. “I can understand,” he mumbles. “I never meant...didn’t know, I…” There’s another quick few sentences in Russian.

Bob makes a thoughtful noise. “He’s pretty shocked that Toews told someone else. Jonathan is a very good secret-keeper. Did something happen, do you know?”

“I guess...I guess Saader and Kane overheard him on the phone. And now they know, and I don’t fuckin’ trust Patrick Kane as far as I can throw him.”

“Well to me, it sounds like is _Toews_ that did bad,” Bobrovsky points out.

“Yeah well, Toews should never have been in a position where he could be overheard. Why the fuck didn’t he just go to _Nick?”_

Artemi leans forward, answers that himself. “Don’t know Nick that good,” he says. “I know Toews. He is good…” He mumbles something to Bobrovsky on the phone, gets a short return answer. “Good for advice. Sorry, Dubi. I really sorry. Sorry, so sorry. Never mean for...secret out.”

Brandon makes a low, wet growl in his throat as he scrubs his hands over his face. “You’re an idiot, Bread.”

“Yes. Yes, idiot. But, uh…” Another spate of Russian, and Bob speaks next.

“Dubi, he says anyone gives you shit on the ice, he beats them up for you.”

Brandon barks a wry laugh. “Yeah, our new Russian superstar goal scorer beating guys up on the ice. Management’ll fuckin’ _love_ that.” Not to mention that Bread doesn’t even break 6’ tall, and he’s _maybe_ 175\. Artemi isn’t beating anyone up. Still, the offer placates him a little bit. It was truly a dumbshit thing to do, but Panarin’s just a dumbass, not a homophobic piece of shit or a blabbermouth gossip. “Don’t tell anyone else,” he tells Artemi, who nods with serious, wide eyes. “Bob, tell him that in Russian, just to make sure we’re clear.”

Bobrovsky does - at least, Dubi assumes he does, as there’s more Russian - and Panarin nods again. “Nobody else,” he promises, and he sounds sincere.

Brandon heaves a sigh, but nods. “Thanks for your help, Bob,” he says.

“Yes, yes. Anytime. Maybe you come eat dinner soon, my house? Olga make something special.”

‘Special food’ and ‘Russian’ immediately marry in his mind into _borscht_ , and Brandon tries not to make a face. “Yeah, maybe. Thanks again, buddy.”

Panarin shifts awkwardly from foot to foot once the phone is hung up. Brandon remembers his entrance - the look on Artemi’s face when Dubi had his hands twisted in his shirt, shaking him - and bites back a sigh. He should _probably_ make up, not only for team unity but also if Bread finds the English to tell team management about this, well, Brandon feels he’s probably already on a pretty short leash. “Sorry about earlier,” he says.

Panarin shrugs. “Is okay. I get it.”

Brandon feels a little nudge by his feet - the little dog is there, and he’s dropped a ball. “Your dog,” Dubi says, watching Artemi’s face light up.

“Riziy,” he says, starting to smile.

“Yeah, uh...Riz...uh, yeah, so tell me about him?”

And that’s how Brandon ends up in Panarin’s spare room, stick handling a ball while Riziy tries to chase it down and Artemi laughs in delight. Not quite how he envisioned the day ending up, but the more Brandon thinks about it, it’s probably for the best.

Still, it’s hard not to wonder when the hammer will come down. He trusts Saader, but Kane? Well, Artemi might just get to test out his braggadocio claims about protecting Brandon sooner than he thinks.

~~~~~

They head to Florida the next day, and Brandon’s on high alert for any slurs from the Panthers. Nobody gives him a second glance during warm ups, though. There’s no specific shit talk during his game, either, so Brandon supposes his secret is still safe.

He ends up on the ice with Josh Anderson and PL thanks to a powerplay throwing off their normal lines, and he feeds Andy in front for a nifty little one-timer and a goal. As he skates across the ice to where they’re buried in a celebratory hug, Brandon wonders just how this is going to go with these two. PL peels off with a tight smile, avoiding the embrace, but Andy looks thrilled and opens his arms wide, so Dubi crashes into him.

“That fuckin’ pass, _boyyyyyy,”_ Josh crows in the dumbest voice he has, but he seems genuinely excited and not disturbed at all to be hugging Brandon, at least at the moment. Brandon smacks him in the helmet, tells him it was a great fuckin’ goal, and for a moment things are almost _normal_...the old normal, before everything went to hell. He goes down the bench, tapping fists, and Panarin stands up and jabs him in the shoulder excitedly, babbling about _best pass, best pass Dubi!_

He ends up in a scrum in the second. Huberdeau is on top of one of his guys and he sees red, giving crosscheck after crosscheck before he’s yanked back by Barkov and they tussle on the ice.

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Barkov snarls in his ear as they grapple and roll together on the ice, and now Brandon _knows_ his secret is safe, because there’s no way Barkov would pass up the opportunity to call him a _fag_ if he knew.

Unfortunately, he’s given an extra penalty which puts the Jackets on the PK. Even worse, Barkov rolled on his knee, so Brandon’s kept out of the game, stuck watching the third on a television monitor with the also-injured Cam Atkinson.

“We got a free night in NYC on Saturday,” Cam points out as Brandon gets his knee iced by the trainer. “You wanna go out? Dinner? Club?”

“Shit, I almost forgot.” New York City, his former town. Brandon’s mind wanders back to his time with the Rangers, the anonymous sex clubs he loved so much as a 21-year-old. Young, horny and stupid back then, not a thought in the world that he might be outed or discovered, or that he was putting himself in any sort of danger with fucking men whose names he didn’t even know.

He hasn’t been back to those clubs since he was traded. At first it was due to schedules, not getting a free evening in the city, the staff back then prefering to fly back to Columbus instead of overnighting it. After a few years away, those clubs just seemed a little...overwhelming. Not worth the risks. Easier to just pull up some porn in his hotel room and jerk off; ten minutes in the quiet privacy of a hotel room versus hours to get dressed and ready, go to the club, find someone to fuck, head back, all for the same orgasm.

He thinks back to PL’s smug little _I just banged the hottest guy_ back at the Halloween party and something in his stomach twists. He deserves that, too, doesn’t he? Risks be damned. He was fine as 21-year-old and he’ll be fine as a 31-year-old, too.

“Maybe an early dinner,” he tells Cam. “No club, though.”

“What, you suddenly allergic to late nights?” Dubi shoots Cam a look, and his eyes go wide. “Oh. _Ohhhh_. Yeah, man, I get it, you got your own plans. New York, that’s...that’s a good place for it, I bet.”

“You have no idea,” Brandon says, wryly.

~~~~~

His old club is membership-only, and only offers memberships at least a year long, and they are _not_ fucking cheap (although Brandon is well aware of their practice of discounted and free memberships for young and beautiful men, of which he is neither). But he looks into NYC’s other gay sex clubs, peruses pictures and reviews and none of them quite work like his old stomping grounds. Not private enough. Not enough amenities. Or they’re meant for a different crowd than he prefers, like leather daddies, or skew on the older side. One by one, the other clubs get disqualified until Brandon finds himself shelling out the cash for a goddamn year membership that he might use five times during the season.

Maybe he’ll end up making a trip or two during the summer. Not like there isn’t always shit to do in New York.

He throws on a pair of nice jeans and a button-down to have dinner with Cam and Nick and endures entirely too much teasing about his evening plans (along with a very sincere, fatherly reminder from Fliggy to _be safe_ \- “oh I will, I don’t wanna disappoint Daddy,” Brandon tells Nick, and gets slugged in the arm for the comment). They don’t actually seem to know what Brandon is doing later, because Cam only found out his plans from a sly innuendo, and Dubi’s never elaborated. They keep referring to a _date_ , like Brandon is taking some guy out for a few drinks and then they’ll go bang it out back at his place.

Brandon doesn’t tell them that _small talk_ isn’t really necessary if you’re at the right venue as a gay man. Although drinks certainly help.

He doesn’t get nervous until he’s standing at the top of an outside staircase, staring down at a plain black door with a small, discreet plaque declaring the business. It’s like a long-forgotten memory, a remnant of what seems like another life. There’s a sudden unbidden image of PL cruising around on Grindr, connecting with a gorgeous boy around his age, bending over for him in an apartment somewhere in this city.

Brandon grits his teeth and heads inside.

He can already hear the music thumping while the reception desk checks out his ID and membership info. It’s decently well-lit here in the entrance area and Brandon feels fidgety and exposed, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he’s confirmed and the bouncer swings the door open for him.

Inside the actual club it’s dark, and Brandon can feel the tension ratchet away a little bit as he heads into the locker room, trying to find his assigned spot. In the corner, there’s someone spraying body paint on a young man: purples, greens, and yellows. The place has always had a sort of masquerade-Mardi Gras vibe with beads and masks and feathers. He remembers his 22nd birthday, getting absolutely hammered on drugs and alcohol and deciding that he was going to try being a fucking fabulous queen that night and ending up in this exceptionally twinky feather boa and rainbow body paint and some smeared makeup that someone put on him, and letting a couple guys run a train on him.

He’s never let that happen since - _queen_ is certainly not his style, a little too faggy for his tastes - and it won’t happen tonight. No feathers, he decides quickly. Certainly no makeup. _Definitely_ no drugs.

Brandon shoves all his clothes into his locker, leaving on only his best pair of boxer-briefs, and takes a peek at the line of accessories the club has available for those that want to get into the spirit. There’s a few of those feather boas he remembers so well, and beads, along with rainbow ties and bandanas and even girly little hair bows. He bypasses all that shit and grabs a Venetian-style half mask. It’s got peacock feathers curling out from it in Mardi Gras colors, and he finds it sort of ugly, but there’s no way he’s strutting into this club without _something_ to hide his identity. He’s not a Ranger anymore, but still.

He still remembers the club inside and out as he walks around the place. The giant dance hall, with bars on every wall; the small rooms in the basement with beds and cushions and soft places (Brandon’s always wondered how the fuck they keep them clean, so he always stayed away from those rooms). A sauna, a bath, and another locker room, but this one for the express purpose of getting fucked and fulfilling those jock-style fantasies.

Brandon has fucked in that fake little locker room a _lot._

He hits the bar first, wants to grab his bearings before any evening activities. Beer and wine are free with membership, so he gets their least-shitty beer and openly stares around. It’s kind of a weird crowd, a mix between those young gorgeous boys whose memberships are clearly free to incent them to come, and older men who can afford the price. Next to him, Brandon can hear one of those younger men clearly angling for a sugar daddy as he chats up an older gentleman with a full grey beard. 

Nobody gives Dubi a second glance. Not for the first time, Brandon wishes he’d had wrist surgery early in the summer rather than try and wait it out. He hadn’t been able to work out quite like he expected in the offseason; he’s used to looking like an athlete in early November, before the season steals his muscles and softens him up. He’s never been the most _ripped_ guy, but at least he’s usually rocking somewhat of a six-pack and that angular sharp ‘V’ that cuts down below his boxers that Brandon finds so fucking hot on other men. Not now, though. It’s not quite a dad bod, but he’s softer than he’d normally be, and he almost feels invisible here. Gay men can be superficial, and that was just fine when he was in his early 20s. Back when he had the body to make men notice him.

But if Brandon doesn’t belong _here_ anymore, where the hell _does_ he belong?

He’s just feeling sorry for himself when there’s a voice in his ear. “Hey there,” someone yells. Brandon glances over, checks his visitor out. He’s perhaps late 20s, some fruity drink in his hand, and he’s wearing a rainbow tutu and above that in glittery body paint on his stomach, the words ‘SUCK ME’ and an arrow pointing down to his crotch. His cock hangs exposed and free underneath the tutu.

21-year-old Dubi would have found this charming and delightful.

31-year-old Dubi thinks it’s tacky as shit. Still, he puts on a smile. “Hey,” he yells back, over the music.

“You look bored. Unimpressed. That right?” the man asks in a tone of voice that clearly indicates he finds the whole ‘I’m-too-good-for-this-shit’ act sexy. That’s not quite what Brandon thought he was projecting, but hey, he’ll take it.

“Just got here,” Dubi explains with a shrug. He nods down at the bright words. “Cute.”

“Yeah, you like?” The man offers a sly smile; he’s not wearing a mask, so Brandon can study his expression, can practically see the lewdness rolling off him. “You wanna?”

He has half a mind to wait for a better option; the guy isn’t bad looking, but he’s a little more lithe and femme than Brandon’s usually into. Still, it’s not like there are guys lining up for him, and all Brandon wants to do is suck a dick or two and forget about hockey and the Jackets and PL and _everything else._ So he gives a confident little grin. “Guess I ain’t doin’ anything better,” he says.

They head downstairs, and the man offers him ecstasy and poppers. Brandon wonders where the fuck he’s hiding them, because he only seems to be wearing a tutu without any visible pockets, but he declines regardless with just a small pang of regret. He hasn’t done either of those drugs in _years_ \- a little bit of pot over the summer is all he’ll allow after that terrible cocaine bender he went on five years ago and realized he couldn’t be trusted to moderate himself with that shit - but they were awfully fun, back in the day.

This is all starting to feel like a bad dream, memories of something he treasured but is now lost and can never be recovered. You can’t go home again, isn’t that what they say? To distract himself, he yanks the guy into the faux-locker room. There’s a couple guys in here already - an obnoxiously loud screamer getting pounded in the corner, a few others - Brandon ignores them all, shoves the guy against the wall and kisses him, rough and biting. The man tastes like that fruity drink he just finished, cloyingly sweet, and Brandon finds it irritating, so he steps back and sinks to his knees.

The tutu tickles his forehead and nose as he sucks the guy off, and Brandon can almost forget, just for a moment, his current situation. He tries to lose himself in the moment, the heady rush of anonymous sex, concentrate on nothing but the heavy weight of the dick in his mouth and the bass thumping down to his core.

There’s a sharp yank on his hair, and a voice next to his ear. “You wanna fuck?” the man calls out. It’s quieter down here, the music filtering from the dance floor above them, and Brandon can hear his breathing, a little ragged from the blowjob. “I think I can guess, but what’re you into?”

“Either,” Brandon tells him, and the guy’s eyes widen comically.

“You bottom?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry, you just look like a big old butchy top with that beard. Alright then, I wanna fuck you.” He says it like it’s a challenge. Like Brandon’s not actually a bottom, and he’s testing him. Dubi grabs a condom from a big bowl embedded in the wall and throws it at him. There’s your answer right there, bub.

He ends up laying on his stomach on one of the long benches as he gets fingered open, his boxer-briefs discarded on the floor next to his foot. Brandon tries to quiet his traitor brain that’s doing its best to yank him out of the moment, _do you really want this, this is kind of trashy isn’t it, not your style anymore?_ It doesn’t help that the bench is shaking underneath him as another couple is using the other end, and the bench vibrates with every one of their thrusts. It’s goddamn distracting. He needs to get fucked _now._

“Hurry up,” he barks behind his shoulder, and the guy smacks his ass, a firm swat.

“Nobody likes a pushy bottom,” the man says. Brandon peeks back to make sure the guy is using a condom, watches him roll it on, and then there’s that familiar pressure against him and…

The man doesn’t give him a lot of time to adjust. Doesn’t go slow, doesn’t offer any sort of intimate touches, just grabs his hips and fucks into him like he’s a piece of meat. Which, Dubi supposes, he pretty much _is._ He crosses his arms on the bench and buries his forehead into them, tries to conjure up his favorite fantasy here in this locker room. In it, he’s just been traded to a team, and the captain wants to see how he’ll ‘fit in’ with the club.

The captain. Josi? Landeskog? Yeah, Landeskog, that’ll do.

So Brandon gets traded to the Avs - 

_“I was against the trade, Dubinsky, but they don’t ask me. You’re a real asshole, you know. You gonna fit in to this room?”_

_“Fuck yeah I will.”_

_“Yeah? How do I know that? Maybe you gotta prove it.”_

_“Prove it? How?”_

“Oh fuck,” Brandon chokes out, because the man has angled to find his prostate and in his mind, Gabriel Landeskog is explaining in explicit detail on how Dubi can _be a good teammate_ to him. He glances up to see another man standing nearby, hard cock bobbing in the air, stroking himself as he watches. He’s far enough away not to be pushy, but close enough that it’s clearly a question: _you wanna?_

Brandon doesn’t even look at the guy’s face, just gestures for him to come closer. He can’t do much of any sort of thinking like this, stretched full on both ends now, trying not to choke as the new stranger thrusts down his throat. But that’s what he wanted. No thinking tonight, an escape.

He’s empty, suddenly, as the guy behind him pulls out. “Thanks,” he says, smacking Brandon on the ass again, and Dubi realizes this asshole just finished without even giving him a reach around. He spits the dick out of his mouth and looks back to see the guy walking away, his stupid fucking tutu shimmering in the dim light.

“Fuck you, shithead,” he yells, but the guy either ignores him or doesn’t hear, because he keeps walking.

“What an asshole,” the guy in front of him says, and Brandon finally gets his first good look at him. He’s wearing a mask with ears that makes him look like a cat, also in Mardi Gras colors. If the greying at his temple is any indication, he’s a little older, but still fit. “Lemme help?”

Brandon ends up flipped on his back this time, still on the bench, his ankles hooked over this new guy’s shoulders as he gets fucked again. The guy’s cat mask looks ridiculous, so he keeps his head turned and watches a hot young couple in the corner go at it instead. At the very least, the guy knows how to work his hips to hit all the right spots, and it’s pretty good, especially as he jerks Brandon off while he thrusts.

“You gonna come? Lemme see. C’mon, baby,” the guy urges, and Brandon wishes he wouldn’t call him _baby_ but he does come, with a loud groan. The sight seems to excite the guy, because he growls out _fuck yeah, fuck yeah baby_ and then he’s slamming into Dubi so hard that Brandon moves up the bench, making these little _ah_ noises as he comes, buried deep inside him.

And then the guy is kissing him, he smells like expensive cologne and his tongue is in Brandon’s mouth and all he wants to do is _leave,_ he wants to be anywhere but here. “Thanks,” Dubi chokes out, pushing the guy off him. He gets the hint, pulls out, and he’s gone.

There’s a guy giving out handjobs in the shower when Brandon gets back to the real locker room, but he rejects it and tries to scrub off the remnants of glitter and body paint and cologne and booze and lube that seem to be permeating every part of him. Handjob-guy quickly finds a willing taker for his services and Brandon listens as the pair talks dirty to each other, watches them kiss. They seem like they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, and Brandon felt like that once, too. Expected to feel like it again. But tonight has just been empty and disappointing. He’s not quite sure how to process this, a scenario where sex not only didn’t cheer him up but seems to have perhaps made it _worse._

That’s not supposed to happen. Not in this world. Not as a gay man. He feels like a weirdo, some broken freak. PL is probably being cheered up with dick right now, why can’t he?

_I miss him_ , the thought comes unbidden and he’s suddenly furious, picking up the complimentary body wash and throwing it against the wall, where it explodes with a wet noise. Handjob-guy and his partner stop what they’re doing and stare.

“You okay, man?” one of them asks.

“I’m fine,” Brandon says.

He’s not. Not really.


	19. Chapter 19

Brandon tries not to be mopey during game day, but all he can think about is how shitty the previous evening was at the club, and how awesome it would have been to show Luc his old city. Brandon still has his old favorite restaurants and bars and it would have been amazing to share them with someone he loves. But he doesn’t get that. He wonders if he’ll _ever_ get that.

The game doesn’t do much for his mood. He does get a nice assist, but it doesn’t escape his notice that Savard takes a half-step sideways when Dubi skates up for the hug. Savy probably doesn’t even realize he’s leaning away, but Brandon finds himself hyper-aware of these things now. It’s hard to trust his intuition; is Savard leaning _into_ Bjorky to tell him nice goal, or leaning _away_ from Dubi because of the gay thing? Savy hasn’t said or done anything shitty in particular, but Brandon senses he’s tentative and uneasy about the whole situation. But he can’t tell for sure, and it’s frustrating as fuck.

To top it off, the penalty kill - _his_ penalty kill - gets scored on. Twice. One is directly off his faceoff loss. Torts lets him know about it the second he gets back to the bench, yapping about how it’s not good enough. Well, no shit.

The plane back to Columbus feels like it takes forever, even though it’s a fairly short hop. Luc looks rested and relaxed and Brandon can’t help but torture himself over what activities PL might have used to _relax_ himself. A kid his age, as fit and good looking as PL, would have no shortage of suitors in New York City.

“Stoppit,” Fliggy growls about halfway through the flight, reaching out and steadying Brandon’s leg, which is _tap-tap-tapping_ away, a nervous jiggle. “You’re shakin’ the seat. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brandon lies, and Nick gives him the _bullshit_ look but he’s tired as well, Dubi can tell, so he lets it go.

Brandon tries to think about upcoming plans instead of Luc and NYC. They play Nashville the next day, and that means ex-teammates Ryan Johansen and Scott Hartnell are back in town. He and Hartsy used to hate each other before they became teammates, but they’ve grown close enough that Dubi attended his wedding this past summer. And he’s gone on vacation a few times with Joey. Brandon contents himself with looking at vacation pictures from last time they took a trip together, scrounging for something to keep himself occupied. It ends up being a terrible distraction; Brandon ends up staring at one photo in particular, he and Cam and Calvy and Joey on a beach. Back before this coming out business, when life was simpler.

There’s a big lunch tomorrow, with Joey and Hartsy and some of the boys. Calvert will be there, or at least he’s supposed to be. Since the whole coming out, they still haven’t really talked, or even truly eaten a meal together. He wonders idly if Calvy is going to bow out of the gathering rather than eat with him.

And, shit - Brandon realizes he should probably come out to Joey and Hartsy, right? He trusts them to keep a secret. Still, it’s a terrifying prospect. The idea of _coming out_ has not gotten easier just by doing it once before.

“You’re doing it again,” Nick mutters, and Brandon realizes that yes, his leg is tapping away anxiously, without even realizing it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sounding as sheepish as he can, and Nick gives a long-suffering sigh and pats Dubi on the leg before rolling back over to sleep. _Sleep_ would be great, but Brandon can’t manage it, stays awake through the plane descending through the clouds. As soon as he has service, he shoots a text off to Joey and Hartsy. _sry 4 late notice. meet early tmrw? just the 3 of us? gotta tell u something_

Hartsy’s probably asleep, but Joey’s a night owl, so the text is returned quickly. They make arrangements to meet early at the lunch spot for a beer, and he figures Scott will adjust his plans in the morning to join them. Brandon realizes this will be the first time he gets to set the narrative around coming out; there’s that, at least. He still doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to say. Or how either of them is going to react.

He lets his leg twitch nervously the whole drive home, not even bothering to stop it.

~~~~~

“Nashville still hasn’t done anything to your piss-poor fashion sense I see,” Brandon chirps Joey as they slap hands and hug. “And you’ve always been hopeless,” he tells Hartsy, who bear hugs him and then punches him, _hard,_ right in the arm.

“Blow me,” Joey responds back cheerfully, but then _something_ passes over his features, a horrified frozen look before it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his easy smile. Scott stares at Joey for a beat before he’s back to normal, too.

Fuck - did someone already tell these guys? Was it Calvert? “C’mon boys, let’s get a drink.”

They talk about bland topics while they’re waiting for their drinks - _how’s Nashville, how’s Columbus, how are all the boys_ \- shit that they’ve already talked about over the summer, but Dubi doesn’t want to get into anything heavy until they’re away from the bar. “Hey, I’m glad we’re meeting early,” Joey says as they find a table, as far away from other patrons as possible. “We have something to tell you, too. You first, though.”

“I mean...you guys can go first, if you want.”

“Nah, it can wait.”

_Shit._ “Okay, um. So, I, uh.” Fuck, he’s had an entire night to think of this speech and he’s still stuttering like an idiot, just like he did in front of the team. “The team knows, but I wanted to tell you, too. You guys are two of my best buds, and...look, I just hope this isn’t gonna fuck anything up. I’m still the same guy - “

“Are you gay?” Hartsy blurts out, leaning forward.

Leave it to Scott to be the master of _unsubtle._ “Uh, well. Yeah. I am.”

Joey’s eyes bug out wide, and he shares an open-mouthed look with Hartsy. “Holy shit. I didn’t think it was true, man.”

“You could have brought a date to my wedding,” Hartsy says. “Like, a dude. You know I woulda been cool with it.”

“Yeah, I - wait. _Wait_ a sec, Joey, you didn’t think it was true? Like, someone told you? Who told you guys?” Goddamnit, Matt Calvert. Brandon can feel his teeth grit together; the one time he gets the chance to come out on his own terms, and it’s been ruined. He shouldn’t be fucking surprised, and yet he is.

Joey and Hartsy share another look. “Well, our captain told us. Roman Josi. He figured we should know, since you’re our buddy,” Hartsy says, slowly. “But I think he heard it from PK Subban. And PK...like, he definitely heard it from another team. He knows _all_ the league gossip, as I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear. If you ask me I’m pretty sure he’s a little flexible himself, but he ain’t told us nothin’ for sure.”

Brandon ignores the casual way that Hartsy is willing to spread gay rumors about a teammate in favor of trying to swallow the bile at the back of his throat. “Me being gay is _league gossip?_ When the fuck did this happen? We just played the Rangers, and God knows if any of those boys knew about it, I’d have heard.”

“That’s what we were gonna talk to you about,” Joey says. “Give you a heads up about those rumors so you could shut them down. I don’t know how far it’s gone, though, or what other teams know.”

Hartsy nods. “And I think it goes without saying that neither of us give a shit who you’re into. Whether you’re pulling in chicks or dudes - all of them ugly, of course, because you’re fucking hideous - it doesn’t matter to either of us.” Joey’s nodding in agreement next to him, and it makes Brandon feel slightly better. “Can’t say the same for the rest of the league, man. Buncha assholes. But if there’s one person that can handle it, pretty sure it’s you.”

Brandon lets his face sink into his hands. “So I should expect a fun night tonight, then,” he mutters, not quite a question.

“Fuck no,” Joey says, and he sounds fierce, insistent. “There won’t be a single fucking guy on our squad that says shit to you about it. They’ll call you a prick, or an asshole, or a fuckface, because you _are,_ but if anyone says any sort of slur, you let me know. We’re not that kinda team.”

The Preds might not be that kind of team, Dubi thinks, but he knows some teams will be. They won’t have a Joey or a Hartsy to hold them back. “Can you do me a favor and ask PK who he heard it from?” At this point, Dubi figures either one of the Blackhawks or one of his own teammates has outed him to the league. He throws up a silent prayer that it was a ‘Hawk. He can beat the shit out of those guys. He doesn’t have to sit in the locker room and play nice with _those_ guys.

Joey nods. “Yeah, I’ll ask. But really, we need to talk first about this crush you have on me.”

“Huh?!” Brandon blinks, dumbstruck, before realizing that Joey is joking. “Oh, hell naw. I’d rather bang Scott here than you, and that’s saying something.”

“Uh, I’m super hot,” Hartsy says, matter-of-factly. “Of course you want to fuck me.”

Joey snorts a laugh, taking a drink. “Okay, but for serious dude, you gotta tell us all the deets. Like, you don’t like women at _all?”_

Brandon bites back a groan, resigning himself to another one of _these_ conversations. It’s tough to smile and laugh, even though Hartsy and Joey are taking the news just about as best they can. The fact that he’s made it onto the league gay gossip is an ever-present tickle in his brain, threatening to send him into hysterics, or fury, or perhaps both at any time. He manages, somehow, to keep it together as the team starts trickling in, just as Hartsy is trying to unsuccessfully convince him to join the You Can Play Project.

“No,” he says for perhaps the tenth time. “I’m not drawing attention to myself like that.”

“But - “

“Talk to PL,” he tells Scott. “He’s into that rainbow gay pride shit.”

“You should be, too,” Hartsy says, and Brandon openly scoffs. “You should, man. Nothing to be ashamed of.“

“Okay, well, after I get targeted each week because everyone knows I’m gay, I’ll let you know how much rainbow gay pride shit I have.”

Hartsy doesn’t say anything to that. 

~~~~~

The text comes shortly after the game, quick enough that Brandon’s only half undressed in his stall when his phone chimes behind him. _Yo PK says DAL,_ comes the text from Joey.

DAL. The Stars. Which means - 

It’s unstoppable, now, the rumors. No longer confined to the Blackhawks and the Blue Jackets, the Preds know, the Stars know, and soon - if Brandon knows this gossipy fucking league - everyone will know. And that means he still doesn’t fucking know who spilled the beans. The idea that it’s one of the boys here in this room - this room that’s supposed to be a fucking unit, a goddamn _family_ \- makes him queasy.

The media are over talking to Jonesy and Korpi, all the way across the room, so Brandon leans over, addresses both PL and Fliggy to the right of him. Luc jerks back in shock as Dubi leans into his space; it’s the first time Brandon’s really gotten voluntarily close to him. “We have a problem. The Preds know about me, and they heard it from the Stars. And that means the whole goddamn league either knows or is going to know soon. I assume they know about you, too,” he says, nodding at PL, who has gone an impressive shade of porcelain at the news. “Fligs, I don’t have to tell you, it’s gonna get ugly.”

“Shit,” Nick mutters. “Who fucking blabbed? Had to be Kane, right?”

“How do you know about - “ Brandon’s cut off by _the look_ from Fligs. Of course. Bobrovsky told him everything, the call with Panarin, all the details. “Right, nevermind.”

“Wait, _Patrick Kane?_ Why does Kane know?” PL whispers, loudly. “How the heck did that happen?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Brandon says, although he has no illusions that he’ll be having a rational discussion with Luc anytime soon; he fucked _that_ possibility up. “I just figured you boys should know. Welcome to the thunderdome, right?”

“We got your backs. Both of you,” Nick tells them, wrapping a towel around his waist for the showers. “We’ll just deal with that shit as it comes, eh?”

Luc’s still watching him with panicked eyes. God, he looks so _young_ like this. Brandon bites back a scathing comment about _this is what you wanted, isn’t it,_ because he just looks so frightened. “You think it’s gonna be okay?” he asks Dubi.

_Nope,_ Brandon thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he shrugs. “No way to tell I guess. Like Nick said, we’ll deal with that shit as it comes, huh?”

For all his brave words, Dubi showers and gets dressed and goes home on autopilot, so much that he’s almost shocked when he walks in his front door, unable to remember how the hell he got there, his body working purely on muscle memory. He opens the door to grab a beer - no way he’s falling asleep tonight without a drink - and hisses as the condensation hits his finger. Brandon glances down and sees that at some point, he’s bitten his way entirely through his thumbnail. There’s a dried trickle of blood along the cuticle. It’s gonna feel great in his glove tomorrow.

He sighs, cracks open the beer with his _other_ thumb, and takes a long drink.

~~~~~

Brandon’s on high alert during his next games for any sort of slurs. But Carolina comes and goes - he gets a goal, and nobody sneers at him. Well, not more than normal, anyway. Then Detroit, and a nine-round shootout (he misses), and the Wings only laugh at his attempt.

No problems with the Canadiens. The Rangers come to town and none of his old teammates confronts him about the news. He’s called plenty of names in Buffalo, but _fag_ isn’t one of them. The Flames mostly ignore him.

It’s been two weeks since Nashville, now, and Brandon’s starting to relax a little. In fact, he’s feeling pretty good. It’s Friday night, they’re at home against the Senators, he and Cam have plans to hit the town after the game, and they have two days before they have to fly to Montreal. The locker room is raucous and upbeat with warm ups finished, waiting for the game to start. There’s the familiar dull roar above him, the crowd growing as game time gets closer, and Brandon’s in his element.

“Two hundred dollars says you _can’t,”_ Josh Anderson is chirping Boone, who is sporting the world’s worst Movember mustache. “Seriously, no way you can pick up with that ferret on your lip, Jens. I wanna see you try.”

“After the game, boys. Watch and learn,” Boone boasts, and pretends to smooth down his mustache.

“Sorry, is the bet only for women?” Brandon pipes up. “Because that is an _epic_ gay porn ‘stache. I’m just saying, you might have more luck with my team.”

Next to him, Matt Calvert snorts. Was that a laugh? He glances over at Calvy, but Matt’s got his nose in his phone, his face smoothed back out to neutral.

“I’ll allow it,” Josh nods. “There you go, Boone, ladies or dudes, your choice. Ask Dubi for advice and maybe you’ll even win this bet.”

Boone flips them all off instead of answering.

Brandon takes the good cheer out to the ice, smiling as he skates a quick lap, the strobe lights flashing and music blaring, crowd going nuts. Life isn’t perfect, but it’s been a good couple of days. He’s been playing and practicing well, the lingering hurt from Calvert’s rejection has faded enough that he doesn’t want to cry every time he thinks about it, and Luc has been just a little less openly hostile since Joey scared them about the NHL rumor mill, which hasn’t come to fruition yet.

Of course, the Sens game goes to absolute shit, quickly.

The first incident happens just a few minutes into the game, when he wins a draw against Derick Brassard and accidentally slashes his stick in the process. “Cocksucker,” Brassard hisses at him before they skate away.

It’s an unusual insult in today’s NHL. Ten years ago, Dubi heard it nightly. Nowadays the chances of getting reported to the league are high - either because a mic picks the slur up, or a sympathetic ref reports it to the front office - and you’ll get fined, and shamed. But there’s still a few guys who use it. Brandon puts it out of his mind and focuses on the game.

It becomes apparent in the second period, however, that it was a deliberate word choice. Brandon accidentally hooks Tom Pyatt, and gets called for the penalty, but not before Pyatt’s in his face, upset by the stick dug into his side. “Watch your stick, faggot,” he snarls before the officials separate them. The refs don’t hear the slur, and Brandon skates to the box and stares at the glass, stunned, while he sits out two minutes.

This is the new normal now, he realizes. The last two weeks were deceptively quiet, but it’s obvious the rumor has made its rounds to Canada. He tries to compartmentalize the slurs. He’s been called every shitty name under the sun, every damn night, by opposing players. He’s always been a little pesty, riding that edge of dirty and clean, and it’s expected that he’s going to take some shit. He figures the name-calling of _fuckface_ and _asshole_ and _bitch_ are going to be replaced by _fag_ and _cocksucker_ and _queer._ He’s been called all three of those anyway, multiple times throughout the years, even before he came out.

But players didn’t know he was gay when they were taunting him with those words earlier. Now, opposing players are deliberately taking his sexuality and turning it into a weapon. There’s something that just feels different about it. It’s that old sense of feeling like you don’t belong, and it fucking sucks.

“Five seconds,” the keeper in the penalty box warns him, and then Brandon’s served his time and sprinting back towards the bench so they can get a fifth man out.

He glances down towards PL, at the end of the bench. He’s staring intensely at the game in front of them, and Brandon wonders if he’s getting any shit thrown his way, too.

Besides a few more shitty comments from Brassard, muttered after faceoffs, and a few taunts from Mike Hoffman, the third period passes mercifully quietly. Brandon is showered and fumbling with his tie, distracted, when PL glances over.

“Hey,” he says, softly. “You got a second to talk?”

“You wanna talk to me?” Brandon can’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yeah.” Luc glances around; most of the other guys are scattered, either already heading out the door or talking loudly, making post-game plans. “How’d it go for you tonight? You hear any, like...comments?”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he means. “You too, huh,” Brandon murmurs with some sympathy. “Yeah, they know about us. Heard a lot of fun things tonight. ‘Go choke on a dick’ might have been my favorite, how about you?”

PL purses his lips; he seems to be finding much less humor in the situation. “Brassard kept calling me ‘PD Dubois’.”

“PD? What’s that?”

“Common gay slur in French. Short for pederast.”

Brandon crinkles his nose. “Awesome. Fuck that guy, he was giving me shit all night too. Him and Hoffman were on my nuts so much you’d think _they_ were the fags.” That at least draws a faint smile from Luc. “Look, don’t let it get to you, alright? They’re just words.”

“Should we tell Nick?”

“What’s Fliggy gonna do about it? And what’s the point - oh, the mean Sens said some mean shit and now our feelings are hurt?” Those words _are_ hurtful, but no way Brandon is going to admit that weakness. No fucking way.

Luc frowns. “There’s a difference between them calling us an asshole and a cocksucker, Dubi.”

“Is there?”

“Well - “ Luc looks unsure now, and hesitates. “I think so? I dunno, what do you suggest we do?”

“Nothing. Keep our heads down, play the game, score some fuckin’ goals. If they wanna take it further than words, then we’ll bring in Fligs. But I don’t wanna be this problem that the team has to coddle, okay? And you don’t either, rookie.” He slightly emphasizes this last word, and Luc hangs his head and nods. _Making waves_ in the NHL isn’t exactly encouraged. Brandon’s just looking out for him - someday, PL will thank him.

Brandon tries to ignore the fact that this might be the first real, decently-long conversation they’ve had in nearly a month since they’ve been broken up. It’s nice. But then Cam is calling, “Yo dumbass, you gonna tie your fucking tie already or _what?_ Let’s go drink,” and Dubi resists the urge to pat Luc on the shoulder or give him some sort of physical reassurance. Instead, he says, “We’ll be fine,” doesn’t quite believe it himself, and heads out after Cam.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference the Montreal media here, and it's true, they are brutal. Brandon's reaction [is as stated](https://twitter.com/BDubi17/status/930937426876526592) (however, I switched the timeline from the mid-November game, when it actually happened, to the late November game).

Brandon and Cam somehow end up in the same place as Boone and the young single Jackets - “Aren’t there enough fucking bars on this street that we don’t have to hang out with these idiots?” Cam grouses, but it’s good-natured. Still, they opt to sit at a table and chat while the other boys troll the bar area and attempt to pick up.

“Hey Jens,” Brandon calls, after Boone strikes out spectacularly with a hot young Ohio State coed. He waves Boone over and points out a small group of men laughing in the corner. Dubi’s pretty sure at least two of them are gay just based on the way they dress and look and act, although who the hell knows, because his gaydar is notoriously broken. “Pretty sure a few of those boys would love that gay porn stache. Just remember, taking home a guy will win your bet, too!”

Boone looks drunkenly excited, and for a brief moment Brandon is _extremely_ confused because he seems to be taking this news with a weird level of anticipation. Turns out, it’s not for himself: “Oh shit,” Boone drunk-whispers, which is really a loud sort of yell. “We should hook you up with one of them!”

“No.”

“It’s perfect,” Boone says, turning away, and Brandon snags his wrist before he can go anywhere.

“Jens, _no,”_ he snarls, putting on his _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ face he gives to the refs after a bad call. Boone’s eyes go wide and he backs off immediately.

“Sorry, sorry,” he babbles. “I won’t. It’s cool. Sorry.” He catches sight of Josh, who is leaning _very_ close to a petite redhead, who is giggling and swirling her drink. “Goddamnit, I was gonna try her next,” Boone moans, and then he’s off back at the bar, zeroing in on someone else.

“Fuckin’ gross pigs,” Cam smirks, watching the scene at the bar play out. “Is their dicks all they think about?”

“As if you weren’t exactly the same before you met Nat,” Brandon points out.

“C’mon, I wasn’t _that_ bad.” There’s a beat of comfortable silence, and then Cam sneaks a glance at the maybe-gay guys in the corner, then back at Brandon.

Dubi bites back a sigh. “Don’t start,” he warns.

“But I want you to be happy - “

“I’ll be happy if you don’t fucking start.” Ever since the team found out Brandon was gay, certain guys - Cam being one of them - can’t resist trying to convince Brandon that he should _get out there_ and see what the dating world has to offer. Sometimes he gets the feeling that his carefully-hidden loneliness, his mask of indifference about love and dating, isn’t quite convincing enough for close friends like Cam. But they don’t understand the risks. They _can’t_ understand that it’s not worth the rewards it might bring.

“Well, speaking of happy, if I don’t get home soon Natalie will be _un_ happy, so. You want a ride?”

Brandon glances at his drink. It’s half-full, and he wants another one besides. “Nah. I’ll be fine.”

Cam stands, claps him on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, bud.”

“Bye, short stuff.” He watches Cam leave the bar, thinks about what it would be like to have someone at home waiting on you. Brandon could stay out all night and nobody would give a shit. Except maybe the coaches tomorrow when he plays like garbage at practice. What would it be like to have a responsibility to someone besides yourself? His gaze falls back on the guys in the corner, and yes, two of them are holding hands now. It’s not a flashy thing, just a twining of fingers underneath the table, a casual affection. Brandon stares at their clasped hands for far too long before a noise at the bar brings him out of his reverie.

It’s Josh, trying to hold back his laughter as Boone strikes out again. He waves Boone back over. “Buy me another drink, Jens, and let me wingman this shit for you, okay?”

Boone’s eyes light up. “Dubi, you’re the best.”

After he gets his scotch (the good shit, because Jens is buying), he saunters over to a small group. One of the women in the group is off to the side, looking at her phone, and so she’s effectively alone and available for small talk. She’s only maybe a fiver, but Andy didn’t specify how _hot_ the girl had to be. Just that Boone had to fuck her.

She looks thrilled and flattered that Brandon is talking to her. A few minutes in he makes an excuse to pull out his phone and show a picture of himself and Boone, sometime when Jens didn’t have that hideous mustache on his face. Brandon wants her to take a good, hard look at how Boone _usually_ appears, so she can maybe see past the porn ‘stache and keep this view in her head of him looking acceptably decent with his typical facial hair.

“Oh hey, here’s my buddy now,” Brandon waves over Boone, who is drunk enough that he doesn’t seem to notice or care that she’s fairly plain looking.

“Hi!” he chirps, and the girl - fuck, what was her name, Lisa? - looks a little taken aback. Whether that’s because Boone is obviously drunk or because of his mustache, he’s not sure. Brandon helps ease Boone into the conversation, facilitating the discussion until he can slip away and finish his scotch in peace.

Holy hell, Boone is gonna owe him one _good._

~~~~~

Boone does win the bet, and he attempts to pay off his debt by inviting Brandon over for Thanksgiving, but _hell_ no. Not only does Boone, a Canadian, not understand the intricacies of American Thanksgiving, but Dubi’s fairly positive he’s never cooked anything as complex as a turkey in his life. Hell, he wouldn’t trust Boone not to fuck up a turkey _sandwich_. And if Boone tried to serve him anything but homemade gravy he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from saying something he’d regret.

So Brandon passes on that invite, especially because Nick’s having a lowkey Thanksgiving affair with no in-laws or cousins and he “needs” somebody to come and help him eat turkey. In reality, Nick is probably perceptive to the fact that Brandon’s going to sit at home and drink himself stupid if he doesn’t go somewhere, and Nick _needs_ Dubi to not do that. He shows up at the Foligno household with a green bean casserole and a bottle of nice white wine and a smile.

When Brandon thinks of the difference between a _house_ and a _home,_ Nick’s place always comes to mind. It’s clean and elegant yet decidedly lived-in and cozy. Family pictures line the walls: Janelle and Nick at some lake drinking wine; the Folignos at Disney, smiling but looking pleasantly frazzled; cooing babies and laughing toddlers. When Brandon closes his eyes and thinks of his dreamt-about future, with a husband and a kid or two (they’d find a surrogate, because Brandon can afford that shit), this is the kind of home they live in.

Dinner is excellent, but not a quiet affair because the table is shared with Nick’s kids. Milana is almost six, and Landon is three, and it’s as rowdy as you’d expect with young children and new food tastes. They manage to get some semblance of conversation in, but Nick looks grateful when Janelle insists that he go and hang out with Brandon after dinner for some adult-only time.

They end up in Nick’s study with cigars, blowing the smoke out of a half-open window. “I can’t believe how much Landon’s talking now,” Brandon says, tapping his ash off in the ornamental glass tray.

“Crazy shit, huh? It’s great, but sometimes I miss just holding a baby, you know?”

“Yeah, I do know.” Brandon stares out the window at the chilly fall sky, remembering a much smaller Landon, gurgling and giggling in his arms. He remembers wondering if he’d ever get his own, and that question still hasn’t been answered, years later.

Nick seems to pick up on his expression, because he leans over and pats Brandon’s knee. “It’ll happen, bud. I know it will.”

Brandon takes a deep puff on the cigar and exhales, harsh and loud. “Not you, too. Seems like it’s all anyone wants to talk about sometimes now that my secret’s out. ‘Yo, Dubi, when can we hook you up with someone? Hey, don’t you wanna date? Don’t you want kids? Don’t you wanna be _happy?’_ Of course I fuckin’ do, but unless someone knows a magical way to do that and make sure I stay in the closet, it’s not gonna happen. Hell, it’s not like _Luc_ would have been ready to get married and adopt a kid or nothin’, even if we kept dating. He’s 19, for fuck’s sake.”

“But you’re not,” Nick says, carefully.

“No shit, really? I’m old as fuck, Fliggy, I know that.”

It comes out far more sarcastically than he meant, but Nick just looks patiently determined. “Other gay celebrities end up finding discreet love, right? It’s just a little harder. You should let us help. I’m sure guys have friends, or friends-of-friends…”

“Gay celebrities end up like Tom Cruise, closing their eyes and flopping around on top of Katie Holmes long enough to squirt out a kid and that’s it.”

“Brandon.” Nick leans forward in his chair, and oh shit, there’s his first name again. Not Dubi, but _Brandon._ Shit is serious. “I saw you earlier. Landon was howling about dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets for the third time tonight and you just smiled. Milana showed you the same dance move from her gymnastics class like five fucking times and you never got frustrated. You want kids, and you’d make a great dad. The _best_ dad, Dubi.”

Shit, _shit,_ Brandon can feel his eyes starting to water. He grips the cigar so tight that he dents it, and shoves a palm against his eye, so hard that he sees squiggly shapes floating around, just trying to hold in any tears. “Don’t fucking do this, Fliggy.”

“You can have this, Dubi, the kids, the - “

_“Don’t,”_ he barks, and Nick finally falls silent. Carefully, Brandon wipes his face, and his voice is low and calm and dangerous when he speaks next. “If you say one more fucking word about this I will leave, and I will never come back here. Do you understand?”

Nick sags back in his chair, mouth opening and closing for a minute, but finally nods. “Yeah.”

He just can’t have this conversation. Just like Cam, Nick doesn’t get it. _Nobody_ gets what he’s going through, except maybe Sidney fucking Crosby and look at that guy. 30 years old, fake girlfriend, probably miserable as hell. If _he_ can’t come out…

Brandon thinks about the Sens game, the upcoming daily shitshow he knows is in store for him as the rumors spread, and the idea of being the first openly gay male athlete in a major pro sport makes his blood run cold. Nick’s wrong. It’s not just a ‘little harder’ to find love as a gay athlete. It’s fucking _impossible_ , and every time someone talks to him about kids or a date or family he’s reminded of that fact, and how none of his straight teammates could ever understand, and he just wants to scream and never stop.

There’s an awkward silence building as they smoke their cigars, and Brandon finally alights on an appropriately bland topic. “You going tree shopping again this year, or you finally get sick of picking up needles?” he asks, and Nick finally cracks a smile, relaxing a little.

“Never get sick of it. It’s tradition. You wanna come?”

Brandon never puts any Christmas shit up in his house. What’s the point? But he pauses, still feeling a little bad about yelling at Nick earlier, and shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Really? You wanna?”

_“Maybe,”_ he says again, chuckling. “Ask me again later. For now, make me another drink?”

“Diva,” Nick huffs, but turns to the bar to do as requested.

~~~~~

Their next game is against Montreal, in Montreal. Brandon fucking _hates_ this place - the media up here is like what he imagines TMZ would be, if they gave a shit about pro athletes not named Lebron James or Michael Phelps. He and the rest of the team get stalked and photographed by the paparazzi like they’re some sort of celebrities, because French-Canadians apparently give a flying fuck what Brandon eats for dinner. The attention was worse when he was on the Rangers, but even the Blue Jackets get spied on.

Pre-game, Luc is next to him and practically vibrating with energy, earbuds in, fingers tapping away on his knees. He looks pumped.

On the other side of him is...not Matt Calvert, not anymore. While their stalls at home remain fairly stable, the road seating arrangement gets shaken up occasionally. Luc is still next to him - just on his _left,_ no longer his _right_ \- which is some sort of cruel fucking joke that he’s positive has something to do with Torts. Now sitting on the other side of him is Artemi Panarin, who is calmly looking through his phone and tapping out texts. Brandon’s already snuck a peek; it’s all in Russian, of course.

“Hey,” Temi nudges Brandon and holds up his phone. It’s a video of his little dog, whirling in frantic circles as a pretty young woman opens up a can of wet food. “You should come over, play extra with Riziy. Yeah?”

“Maybe,” Brandon concedes. Artemi’s been trying, he can tell. Maybe he should make an effort in return. “Is that your dog sitter?”

Artemi makes a little huffing laugh, looking almost shy. “Yes. Also girlfriend,” he says.

“Oh, _that’s_ new, huh!” Brandon nudges him. “She’s cute.”

“Yes,” Artemi beams, then frowns, looking confused. “You think...cute? But…?”

“Well, I can recognize she’s cute but not be attracted to her. Like, you can probably see that Ryan Reynolds is hot even though you don’t like guys?” Artemi just sort of stares at him, and Brandon holds up his hands. “Nevermind.”

The Jackets lose, but nobody calls him a fag, so there’s that. There’s only a single Columbus goal scored; Luc gets it, and Brandon can see his dazzling smile from the bench. His first goal in his hometown province of Quebec. Brandon can see him trying to play it cool as he comes in for fist bumps, just a little grin quirking up the sides of his mouth, unable to stop himself.

A couple guys are getting a beer afterwards, and Cam drags him out. Brandon can’t say no to a drink with Cam and the little shrimp knows it, and takes advantage of that fact. But when they arrive at the bar (which is pretentious and Frenchy, just like Brandon _knew_ it would be) there are a few surprises: Zach’s sitting there, a gross Michelob Ultra in front of him, and Dubi can already hear Seth giving him endless shit about it. Zach’s only 20, but Brandon remembers the drinking age in Quebec is 18. Which means…

Luc slides into his line of view, returning from the bar with two glasses of red wine, and sets one down in front of him and one in front of Jonesy. “Dubi?” Cam asks, and Brandon realizes he’s stopped walking, feet rooted to the floor. “What’s up, man?”

“Oh, uh. No, nothing, we’re good,” he says, forcing himself to walk forward again. He and Luc are supposed to be fine, from what they’ve told the team, just a brief fling that didn’t work out through no fault of their own but they’re buddies, no problem at all. Brandon catches Luc’s eye and is rewarded with a tight, small smile, which is better than the blank stare or grimace or scowl he’s gotten over the past few weeks. Ever since their shared experience in Ottawa, it’s like some dam has been broken, the stifling anger from Luc turned into a soft sort of understanding. Brandon’s not quite sure how to feel about that. On one hand, he probably _should_ try to piss Luc off again, for the sake of both their careers.

On the other hand, seeing Luc smile at him - even a tiny one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes - it’s like Brandon forgot how to breathe and is now taking his first deep gulps of air in over a month. Like a huge weight has shifted, not quite off his chest completely but knocked at least a few pounds off.

Brandon sits back and mostly lets the other boys dictate the conversation, slowly sipping a scotch and listening in as the guys talk about potential Christmas plans. Then, Zach gets up to piss and Seth and Cam go up to settle the bar tabs and before he knows it, he’s alone with Luc for the first time since he can remember. Brandon stares into his glass, the last dregs of amber liquid rolling around the bottom, because he has no fucking idea what to do or say in this situation.

“So...you got any Christmas plans?” Luc asks, tentatively.

Brandon glances up sharply, trying to decipher the meaning of that question, but he quickly gathers that Luc is simply making small talk and not trying to invite him to something. At least, he _thinks_ so. “Not really, you?”

“Back up here. Family, you know.” Luc’s smile widens into something genuine and delighted, apparently at the thought of his parents and sister.

“Well, speaking of _up here_ , that was a hell of a goal tonight.”

Luc’s smile gets a little wider. “Yeah? Thanks. It just - it felt _awesome_. Like, to score here, in Montreal, against the Habs? I mean, as a kid - “

“Yeah yeah, every damn Quebec kid dreams about that shit, I’ve heard all about it. I’m happy for you, Luc.”

“Really?” Luc sounds genuinely surprised, but also pleased.

“Sure,” Brandon says, and Luc beams for a brief split-second before he seems to remember , that he’s still supposed to hate Brandon, and his smile falters and he ducks his gaze back down. But there’s still a tiny ghost of a grin, like he can’t totally wipe the smile off his face, and Brandon feels a dangerous sort of hot glow in his belly at the sight.

Cam’s back from the bar, and knocks into Brandon. “You dumbfucks ready to split? Dubi, I got your dumb ass, and Jonesy got you, Luc. So we’re ready to go if you are.”

Brandon’s ready to go before he fucks this all up, this tiny little olive branch from Luc that he tries so hard not to cling onto. Still, he’s relaxed and pleased on the cab ride back to the hotel, all the way up until he slides out of the taxi and there’s a bright flash in his face.

Goddamn fucking tabloids. This one hits Brandon hard, because he’s still thinking about Luc, and he gets a sudden jolt of fear, as if the paparazzi can read his inner thoughts and realize that he’s gay. Before he can stop himself, he throws up a middle finger towards the photographer, and there’s another bright flash. “Fuck you,” he mutters, glad they got that on camera, because he figures it will be unpublishable but also show them exactly how he feels.

As he’s brushing his teeth, safe in his hotel room, his mind drifts to him and Luc, the possibility of what might have been. In his fantasy, PL is showing him around town, stopping in a few bars and coffee shops, all his favorite places. There’s a little pastry shop and Luc drags him inside, feeds him a dainty little chocolate truffle - 

And suddenly the goddamn paparazzi are there, flashing photos, and then they’d be on every fucking tabloid the next day. And then ESPN. And then...and then…

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. He can’t even fantasize without the goddamn tabloids in his face. Brandon finishes brushing his teeth, gives himself a perfunctory jerk off, cleans up and turns off the light.

He can’t wait to get out of this town.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Ducks fans. Your team is just _really_ easy to make into villains.
> 
> Read more (with pictures of PL and Dubi!) about the Jackets Day of Service [here.](https://www.nhl.com/bluejackets/news/cbj-day-of-service-2017/c-293665792)

After returning from Montreal, they have a few days at home. The game against Carolina goes fine - either the Canes haven’t heard the news or they don’t give a shit about Brandon’s sexuality. The idea that it’s the latter gives him some hope, that there might be entire teams out there filled with guys that are accepting, or at least decent enough human beings to call him an _asshole_ instead of a _faggot._

Brandon tries to take that good cheer into tree hunting with Nick, wondering why in the world he ever agreed to it in the first place. He hasn’t put up a tree in years, since he was with the Rangers, and every single fir in the tree farm basically looks exactly the same to him. But the Folignos seem to have very strict criteria. “What about this one?” Brandon asks, and Nick and Janelle stop to frown at it.

“Too needle-y,” Nick proclaims. His wife nods in agreement.

“Too _needle-y?_ What in the f - what does that even mean?” Brandon corrects quickly, mindful of the kids. Milana is running around like a - well, like a five-year-old, but Landon is being pulled in a wagon and well within hearing range.

Nick swipes a hand down the branches. “Well, you don’t want a bare tree, but you don’t want a puffy, oversized tree either. It might look nice, but it’ll just start dumping needles like you wouldn’t believe. C’mon, let’s keep going.”

Fligs might as well be speaking Russian for all Brandon understood that, so he just shrugs and trudges along.

They look at what seems to be a _million_ more trees before a small voice from below interrupts his thoughts. “Brandon?” comes the squeak, and he looks down to see Milana holding her arms out. “Carry me?”

He leans down to pick her up, hefting her in his arms. “When did you get so heavy, pipsqueak?” he asks, and she giggles. Brandon gives Nick a warning look when he glances over; he doesn’t want any talk of _kids_ or how he’d be a great dad or any of that shit. He’s apparently learned his lesson though, because Nick keeps his gaze carefully neutral.

“Better you than me,” Nick says instead, keeping his tone light. “She _is_ heavy now. I’ll throw my back out.”

The Folignos finally pick a tree using some sort of secret baffling criteria that Brandon cannot figure out. “Brandon needs a tree now!” Milana shrieks from his arms, wiggling to get down and immediately scampering off once her feet touch the ground. Nick yelps her name and heads after her.

“No tree,” Brandon tells Janelle, who smiles sympathetically.

“I’m not sure you have a choice, Brandon.”

Milana’s a little bulldog, just like her father, and she will _not_ accept no for an answer. Brandon finally reaches a compromise; he’ll get a tree, but it has to be small. “Milana-sized” is what he calls it. So while the Folignos select a tree that’s above Nick’s head, Brandon’s little tree is barely to his waist. It’s not quite Charlie-Brown-Christmas pathetic - in fact, it’s pretty nice looking - but it’s quite a difference from Fliggy’s fir.

“Our treat,” Janelle smiles. “Thanks for humoring her. Do you mind watching Landon for a bit while we get this all sorted? He keeps climbing off the wagon.”

Brandon shrugs. “Sure.”

He turns his attention to their toddler, who is bent over, scooping at the dusting of snow on the ground. “Look at this,” he burbles, which sort of comes out more as _loo at dis_ , and then he’s throwing the snow onto a tree and laughing.

“That’s awesome, buddy,” Brandon tells him, and throws a little bit of snow himself, which causes Landon’s laughter to turn into a full on giggle-fit.

There’s footfalls behind him, and he turns around, mouth already open to tell Janelle something. But it’s not her, or Nick - it’s an older woman, maybe in her early 60s, and she’s staring at Landon with a goofy smile. “Your son is _adorable,”_ she gushes. “How old?”

“Three,” Brandon says after a long moment. It feels less like a lie and more like a necessary non-truth. He certainly doesn’t want to get into the backstory, and a man with a little boy who isn’t his son…

“He’s going to be a heartbreaker when he grows up,” she says. Landon’s in a weird toddler phase where strangers creep him out - unlike his sister, who is gregarious and wants to meet everybody - so Landon moves into his arms, wanting to be protected from what he perceives as stranger danger. Brandon hauls a loose arm around him obligingly and smiles up at her.

“Yep,” he says, willing her to get the hint and leave. Nope, she just keeps rambling on, starting to talk about _her_ grandchildren, until Janelle appears on the scene again. Landon dashes towards her.

“I was just telling your husband how cute your son is,” the lady tells Janelle, and Brandon could fucking kill her.

Janelle, to her credit, simply smiles and nods. “He gets into trouble, though,” she says. “C’mon, Brandon, the trees are all loaded on the car.”

Dubi waits until the older lady is out of earshot to apologize. “Janelle, I never - like, I didn’t say he was my son, I just - “

She shoots him a genuine smile, laced with sympathy, and pats his arm. “No worries, B,” she says. “I get it. Say no more.”

That sounds like as good of a plan as any, and he continues to not say much more for the entire ride home.

~~~~~

Home game against the Ducks is next, and the calendar ticking into December means the Jackets org going overboard for Christmas. The cheerleaders are wearing festive shit, and Stinger’s wearing a Santa Hat, and they play some sort of rock version of the _Nightmare Before Christmas_ soundtrack all the time. Brandon wants to tell the marketing department that there’s still 24 entire fucking days till the holiday and they don’t have to start exactly on December 1st, but he doesn’t get a say in it.

Brandon’s doling out pucks at center ice during warm ups, as he usually does, when he hears a voice behind him. “I think I know what you want for Christmas,” one of Ducks is telling him. He glances back; it’s Kevin Bieksa, who is a well known piece of shit.

“For you to never fuckin’ talk to me again, bud,” Brandon shoots back. “Enjoy the bench tonight.”

He turns back around, and Bieksa snorts. “Naw,” he says. “I heard what you really want is a nice, hard dick. Isn’t that right, cocksucker?”

“Well, I dunno why you’re talking to me then, limp dick. Shut the fuck up.”

Bieksa gives an obnoxious giggle and skates off, and Brandon watches him circle around the red line until PL gets close. Dubi watches Luc’s mouth clench into a thin, drawn line at something Bieksa shouts at him, and then Kevin and Corey Perry laugh, braying like two fucking donkeys at the chirp.

He goes and takes a few shots, and sauces pucks with Cam, and when he looks back over Nick and Corey Perry are doing the warm up thing where they’re arguing out of the sides of their mouths so fans don’t notice and point it out. He skates over, and hears Nick snarling, “You have the fucking A, be a man.”

“I am a man,” Perry shoots back. “Unlike the girly boys you have on your team. You like these guys staring at your junk, Foligno? You get off on that shit?”

“Fliggy,” Brandon tugs at him, because it looks like Nick is going to go across the red line and start throwing some punches, and there’s no way to answer the question of _why_ that would happen. “Stop, man, we’ll just score tonight on these dumbfucks.”

“You can go _score_ on each other’s asses,” Perry says, and then skates away.

Nick turns back to Brandon, cheeks ruddy with anger. “Fuck these guys,” he tells Brandon. “Tonight is _ours.”_

The words end up being prophetic. Brandon scores quickly, and Josh Anderson grabs him in a tight hug and yells in triumph. Despite his initial hesitancy towards the whole coming out thing, the entire team has now heard - or at least heard about - the clusterfuck in warm-ups, and Josh is just as righteously angry about the whole thing as anyone. It feels _great_ to go through the handshake line and smirk at Anaheim’s bench. 

Brandon realizes, for the first time, that his and PL’s status can be used as a _weapon_ ; both he and Luc draw penalties from the Ducks. Dubi’s comes when he makes mocking little kissy noises towards one of them, which angers the guy enough to put a hard shoulder into him when the puck is nowhere near either. The refs call it interference. Their powerplay is absolute shit right now, so they don’t score, but it’s something.

Dubi ends the night with a goal and an assist, with two assists for PL, and a win. He heads down the tunnel amidst cheers and _woo_ s, and right outside the locker room Panarin has PL in a tight hug, and they’re both jumping up and down and laughing. “Fuck these fucks!” Artemi whoops. He’s had a three point night, including a goal, so Brandon figures he’s right to be excited.

“Hell yeah!” PL cheers right back, looking delighted.

Panarin spots him and his eyes go wider, if that’s possible. “Dubi!” he yelps, and suddenly Brandon is dragged into the hug, crushed against PL and Artemi. “We win for you! We do it! Fuck these fucks!”

“Uh, yeah,” Brandon mutters, suddenly _very_ aware of being pressed against Luc, and then realizes he doesn’t sound nearly excited enough. “Fuck yeah!” he tries again, and Artemi nods in satisfaction and moves off.

He immediately stumbles a step back from PL, staring at his skates. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s - ...I mean, it’s cool. Like, no big,” PL says, trying to play casual but tone coming out a little awkward and stilted. He pauses for a long moment, then smiles. “We really did kick ass tonight, huh? I mean, it sucks that the Ducks were like that, but...we shut em up, eh?”

“Shoved it right up their ass,” Brandon declares, and then - god help him, looking back on it he’ll _never_ understand why he did it, but he winks, and PL’s face dissolves into a snorting giggle, like he doesn’t want to laugh but can’t help himself. Dubi moves into the locker room alternating between kicking himself - he can’t, can’t, _can’t_ fall back into anything with PL - and floating on a cloud, to see PL laughing at his joke.

They fly to Washington immediately after the game, and Brandon can feel Luc’s eyes on him as they disembark the plane. He’s at least smart enough to not look back this time.

~~~~~

It’s a loss at Washington, and then back to Columbus for their annual Day of Service, which is where Jackets marketing trots the team out to volunteer and get hands-on for the day. Half the group is going to the food bank, and half the group is going to the furniture bank. The furniture bank is his favorite - you get to build furniture for low-income families, and watch teammates be dumbasses with power tools. But PL gets placed in that group, and as much as Brandon would much rather build chairs than sort cans, he feels like he needs some space from Luc. The last thing he needs is for them to bond over making furniture and who the hell knows what happens then.

“Can I go to the food bank?” he asks Nick, who eyes him suspiciously. “My hand kinda hurts,” he lies.

“More like it’s easier work and you’re a lazy fuck,” Nick says. “But you’re in luck. I already looked at the assignment sheet and you’re at the food bank anyway.”

“With me!” comes a cheerful voice from behind, and then something solid slams into his side. Cam Atkinson grins up at him.

“Oh, I’m with short stuff? Maybe I do wanna go to the furniture bank,” Brandon says, and gets punched in the hip for his effort.

The work is fine, and easy, even though Brandon is never thrilled to do it. It’s sort of an asshole way of looking at things, and he’ll never admit it, but he’d much rather just donate his money than his time. He’s got _plenty_ of money. Time, he’ll never get back. But with all the cameras snapping in his face from Jackets marketing, he knows it’s more of a PR move than anything.

“Oh shit, cameras. Look cute,” Cam orders, taping a box that Brandon’s holding while the camera snaps away. “You could have at least done your hair,” he says as the photographer moves off.

“Short stuff, why the fuck would I gel my hair to come to the food bank and volunteer?”

Cam shrugs, grabbing another box. “You never know who’ll view these photos. You could have made this your Grindr profile pic or something.”

Brandon’s eyebrows shoot up. “First, why would I ever be on Grindr. Second, how do _you_ know about Grindr. ...Cammy, are you on Grindr?”

“Hell, I’d just bang you if I wanted to be on Grindr,” Cam teases, and it’s been nearly a month now since he’s had sex and those words do something terrible to him.

“Uh uh, no way. No more fucking teammates,” Brandon declares in a low voice, packing up the next box. “Not even you, short stuff.”

“Aw,” Cam pretends to grouse. “Will you at least be my Christmas date?”

“What now?”

“Christmas,” Cam says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “Nat’s doing one last big girl’s trip with her mom and sisters before she’s too pregnant to do anything else, so I’ll be chilling by myself. Are you going home?”

It’s a pain in the ass to go to Alaska with just three days. With the travel time, he basically spends nearly two full days traveling anyway, so he doesn’t usually bother. But he’d been thinking about it, this year. His carefully-fantasized plans about having a boyfriend for Christmas are long dead, and the idea of spending it alone has been devastating. “I was thinkin’ about it, but I’d rather just stay here. Yeah, we can do Christmas. You’re sure _you_ don’t wanna go home? You always go home.”

Cam shrugs his shoulders dismissively, and Brandon suddenly gets the _distinct_ feeling that he’s being - well, essentially babysat. Nick for Thanksgiving, Cam for Christmas. Like they don’t trust him on his own, like they think he needs company to not do something stupid. Why else would Cam mysteriously stay in town? His wife spending the holidays with her family doesn’t preclude him from being with his, and Brandon knows Cam loves spending Christmas with his parents.

He tries to tell himself that there’s plenty of reasons for Cam to stay in town, but he can’t shake the thought of Cam and Nick, whispering plans and worrying about his state of mind. The idea of it fills him with sharp, indignant anger, and they pack a few more boxes in silence before Brandon blurts out, “Actually, maybe I will go home.”

“Oh,” Cam looks up in surprise. “Really? I mean, yeah, that would be good. You could see your family.”

“Yup. How about I let you know soon.”

“Sure thing.”

Brandon has no actual intent of going home. What he _hasn’t_ decided yet is if he’s going to play along. The company would be nice, but the idea that Nick and Cam and god knows who else have decided he needs a caretaker is galling, and he sort of wants to be contrary about it. He’ll take a few days to decide, anyway.

“Smile!” The photographer is back, and Brandon’s smile is stiff and wooden. He notices later that the photo didn’t make it on any of the social media accounts, ended up on the cutting room floor. Somehow, he’s not really surprised.

~~~~~

The next week brings a home-and-home with the Devils, and that’s when Brandon realizes that all hope of containing the gossip is dead. Brian Boyle was a long time Rangers teammate, now with New Jersey, and while they didn’t always get along - they even fought at practice one time - the hijinks they got into together were pretty legendary. Brian’s fighting cancer now, newly back on the ice, and Brandon’s occasionally texted him to get updates and wish him well. They meet at center ice and bump into each other during warm ups.

“You kicking cancer’s ass?” Brandon asks, elbowing Brian in the side.

“Honestly, it’s going fuckin’ great,” Brian tells him. “Best as it can be, you know? And what about you, your balls finally dropping?”

Dubi’s got a cold, and his voice is squeaking, and of course Brian picks up on it. “Just a little sick, don’t get too close.”

“If the docs were afraid for my immune system, you think I’d be playing? You know the gross fucks we play with. Anyway…” Brian trails the _y_ off in the word, looking awkward, and Brandon’s stomach clenches. There’s only been one reason anyone has looked _awkward_ around him lately. “You, uh. You gonna be the Jackets’ Hockey Is For Everyone ambassador this year? I’m part of the You Can Play project, you know.”

Brandon almost laughs. “Bri, you cowardly fuck. Really, _that’s_ how you ask? Just ask your fuckin’ question.”

“There’s been rumors,” Brian says.

“That’s not a fuckin’ question either, Bri.”

Boyle snorts. “Fine. You gay?”

“There it is,” Brandon chirps, mockingly. Being that Boyle’s opening was to remind Brandon he’s part of the You Can Play project, he’s pretty sure the news will be handled well. “Yeah, I am. Tell your team not to be assholes tonight, huh?”

“Holy fuck. I mean - I think everybody’ll be cool,” Brian says, but he doesn’t sound 100% sure and that bothers the hell out of Brandon. “Man, I never knew. Holy shit. I mean, it’s cool, but - _holy shit_. Like, in New York, you and that chick - “

Brandon cuts him off with a groan. “This is about the fiftieth fucking coming out Q&A I’ve had to give. Just text me, okay? Wait - who did you hear this from?”

“Brett Connolly,” Brian says, and Brandon’s heart sinks. He doesn’t even fucking _know_ Connolly personally, and Brett plays for the Capitals, a division rival. Now the Metropolitan division knows, guarantee. The teams he sees more than _anyone_. The whole fucking NHL has to to know by now, right?

What’s really scary is how few texts he’s getting from guys he’s played with about the whole gay-and-fucking-a-teammate rumor. Is it because they’re all waiting in person to see him and talk to him? Or are most guys disapproving and don’t even want to fucking text him any more? If Brandon has to have one more of these awkward pre-game conversations, he thinks he’s going to scream. Half of him wants to just get every team captain’s phone number and text them: _YES I LIKE DICK. TELL YOUR TEAMS TO NOT ASK ME ABOUT IT._

Brian interrupts his thoughts. “If it makes you feel better, newest gossip is that Nate Schmidt with the Knights is dating a lady who used to be a dude, so you’ll be yesterday’s news in no time,” he says, then punches Brandon in the arm. “I’ll text you! I got so many questions!” he yells, skating away, and Brandon is left to stare after his retreating figure.

Even Brian, who took Brandon’s outing with nary a blink, who obviously considers himself an ally, is all too willing to spread gay gossip like it’s going out of business. _Who cares who Nate Schmidt is dating,_ he wants to yell at Boyle. _It shouldn’t be a big fucking deal._ But of course, it is. And of course, Brandon is a big deal, too.

He just wants to have _one_ day where someone doesn’t bring up his sexuality. A day where he’s treated normally, where nobody walks on eggshells around him or insists on talking about his love life, just like it was before he got outed. Just one fucking day - is that too much to ask?

They lose the game, and Brandon gets back to the locker room to a text from Brian. _Will text tmrw_ , it says. _Soooooooo many questions_

Just one fucking day. Today was not that day, and Brandon realizes tomorrow won’t be it, either. He sighs and tucks his phone away and thinks about picking up a six-pack on his way home.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple visual aids for you:
> 
> [Jackets Christmas party](https://www.nhl.com/bluejackets/news/social-roundup-december-18/c-294136258)
> 
> I mention Brandon dressing up as Santa. He, for some reason, has a long history of doing so...and having guys sit on his lap? Cool.  
> [Cam, Brandon, Nick](https://i.imgur.com/GOid9vI.jpg)  
> [Brandon and Bob](https://i.imgur.com/rJFrsK1.png)  
> [Brandon and Sean Avery - who will make a short appearance at some point!](https://i.imgur.com/5Ywzn9b.jpg)  
> [Brandon and Brian Boyle](https://i.imgur.com/6TJfjZe.jpg)
> 
> Also, Brandon continues to have problematic opinions about therapy and, well, basically everything, so yeah. Don't take that to heart.

It’s the Coyotes game next, and the morning-of Brandon pedals on a bike and tries not to look too sleepy, and also tries not to stare at PL while he does some light plyometrics in the corner. As a teenager, he’s lanky and sort of gangly, long limbs and an awkward sort of strength that he’s still growing into, but he’s still annoyingly hot. He keeps bending over right in Brandon’s line of sight as he does box jumps, ass jutting out, and if Dubi didn’t know any better he’d think he was doing it on _purpose._ Jesus Christ.

He decides to go make himself a protein drink before he gets a quick workout in, partly because he’s old and needs all the help he can get nowadays but partly also to get away from Luc’s ass. As he steps out of the gym, he nearly runs into Cam, fully kitted in his hockey gear and headed down the hallway. That’s unusual - almost nobody does a morning skate with Torts, not when they have a game in the evening. “Cammy, you hurt?” he asks, because the only guys out there on the ice right now are tonight’s scratches, not playing due to injury or otherwise.

“Healthy scratch,” Cam tells him, expression pinched, not slowing at all in his march down the hallway. It’s a pretty clear sign he’s not ready to talk about it yet, but Brandon’s shocked. Cam, a healthy scratch? _Cam?_

It’s not something they’ve talked a lot about outside the rink, but the specter hangs over a lot of them, that their game is shit and they’re not scoring. It’s not just Cam; Fliggy’s year has been garbage, and Boone’s too. And Brandon’s. He’s killing it in faceoffs, over 60% most nights, being defensively responsible and a good teammate. But the Jackets are not paying him almost six mill to be a _grinder._ He’s expected to score goals and he’s not. Nobody is right now, except PL’s line. Luc and Artemi and Josh are the only things keeping them afloat, besides Bob.

Brandon tries not to think about it outside the rink because he sure hears enough _at_ the rink about it from Torts, and it also makes this shit season that much worse. If he were tearing up the league, he could deal a little better with the comments that are coming more and more often. _You’re supposed to score on the goalie, not on your teammates,_ one of the Devils had goaded him yesterday, and Brandon didn’t even bother to tell his buddy Boyle that his teammate was an asshole. What’s the point? He’d have an easier time listing the good ones than the jerks.

Anyway, if Cam is healthy scratched, that means nobody is safe. Not Fligs, not Jens, and certainly not him. He’s never been healthy scratched before, and he always figured when it happened, it was probably a sign to start hanging ‘em up. Brandon thinks about retiring in the next few years and allows a wave of panic to wash through him. It’s too soon. Hockey’s all he’s _got._

He throws himself into his workout to blank his mind out. Nothing too heavy with the game coming up, a lot of core and balance and foam rolling, but it makes him feel better, makes him feel like an _athlete,_ someone who still belongs in professional sport. Brandon mostly avoids staring at Luc as well, who ends his workout dripping with sweat, his tech shirt clinging wet to his body. “Sup, Dubi,” he says casually, tossing a wave at Brandon as he leaves the gym. It’s the first time Luc’s acknowledged Brandon in the weight room since the fight. Dubi doesn’t quite know how to feel about the fact that the chill between them seems to be thawing, ever so slowly.

Finally, he sees Cam and the other scratches tromp down the hallway toward the locker room to change, and Brandon quickly towels off and finds Cam at his stall. “Let’s go to lunch,” he tells Cam, less of a question and more of a demand.

“Eh, not really feeling it today, Dubi,” he shrugs, still keeping his eyes averted from Brandon’s, like he’s embarrassed or something.

“Oh yeah, I know all about wanting to be left alone, and _somebody_ not fucking leaving you alone. That sound familiar?”

Cam finally cracks a smile. It’s faint, but it’s there. “Well, shit. You got me.”

“Look, we don’t even have to go out. I have chicken enchiladas in the crockpot at home. Come over, have a beer, have some grub...I know you like ‘em.”

It’s true, Brandon makes a damn good enchilada for a white dude from Alaska, and Cam knows it. He sighs, waving a hand in defeat. “Fine. I’ll be over as soon as I’m done here. But you better stop and get something besides Bud Light or whatever that piss you have in your fridge is.”

“Deal,” Brandon agrees.

By the time Cam arrives, Brandon’s got the food almost ready and cold cans from Cam’s favorite local brewery in the fridge. “You know a way to a boy’s heart,” Cam says approvingly as he pulls out one of the Land Grant beers.

Brandon agrees he _would_ make a pretty damn good husband, but he doesn’t say that because there’s no way he’s touching that topic again, not with Cam already stuck on the finding-him-a-boyfriend subject. Instead, he shrugs and says, “Shit day deserves good beer.”

“Tell me about it.”

They don’t talk about hockey at all during lunch, eating with plates balanced on their knees on the living room couch and watching _Drunk History_. They don’t talk much at all, really, and it’s not until the episode ends and Cam’s plate is empty that he rolls his head back to the ceiling with a groan. “Torts says he wants to send a message to the team. That it’s not, like...all about me. Lots of guys are having crappy years and it’s not _just_ me but I just signed that big contract and he thinks scratching me will be a big wake up call.”

“Well, he’s right,” Brandon says. “As much as I hate to say it. Huge wake up call for me. If _you_ can get scratched...shit. None of us are safe.”

Cam’s silent for a long moment. “It’s not like I’ve never been scratched before, right? But that was earlier. Before Torts. Before I signed this big fuck-yeah contract and now...it’s a lot of pressure, you know? Well, _you_ know.”

“I know, bud.”

“I called Marty today,” Cam continues, and Brandon knows _Marty_ is Martin St. Louis, Cam’s friend and mentor. Short Club, Brandon has sometimes teasingly called it, although that’s not too far off from the truth. “He says I should think about therapy.”

“Therapy?!” Brandon scoffs, staring into his beer. “Therapy is for goalies and kooks, man.”

Cam frowns, shoots him a sour look. “Well, Marty said it really helped him get his game straight and his head together. We go through a lot of pressure, you know? Why’s it so bad to just sit down and talk through it with someone?”

“You can talk to me, or Fliggy, or - “

“No offense, B,” Cam cuts him off. “But you’re not exactly the paragon of like, good life choices here.”

Brandon grunts, takes a sip of his beer and tries not to roll his eyes.

“Besides,” Cam continues, “Marty’s not a kook, and he said it helped.”

“Well he’s sure not a goalie,” Brandon mutters, but Cam’s frown is deepening and so he gives up, raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, look, I’m an asshole. It’s cool. Whatever is gonna get your head back in the game, right? Do it, and fuck anyone else who says shit. I mean, you might not want to spread it around the league, right, about the shrink? Guys are assholes, trust me on that. Anyway, you’ll only be out one game, I know it.”

“Right. That’s what Torts says.”

A _shrink._ Brandon thinks about all the movies he’s seen with therapists, the long couch, the staring up at the ceiling and talking about your _feelings_ while some nerd in a bow-tie takes notes and psychoanalyzes your dreams or whatever. Sounds dumb as shit, but Cam must be in a real bad spot if he’s thinking about it. He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he slaps Cam’s thigh with a smile. “I gotta nap soon, but you want me to kick your ass at Chel one time beforehand?”

“Bring it, asshole,” Cam shoots back, and there he is, there’s that old Cam. Brandon grins triumphantly and throws him a controller.

~~~~~

The Coyotes game goes...fine. Cam manages to not look too miserable in the locker room, wearing a suit and tie instead of his gear, and the Jackets win 1-0. Once again, it’s Luc’s line that scores it, and they have a new nickname in town. “PBJ”: Pierre-Luc, ‘Bread’ (Artemi’s nickname), and Josh. It’s dumb, but the boys seem to like it. It takes the heat off the rest of them, at least.

The next day is the Jackets’ annual ugly sweater party. Every team has some sort of holiday event; the Rangers used to just have a general Christmas party, and for some reason Brandon got into the tradition of dressing like Santa Claus. He did that the first few years in Columbus too, but now he figures he’ll never bring that red suit out again. How many guys playfully sat on his lap throughout the years? And how many guys now are looking back on that and freaking out? Brandon never wants to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

Luckily, they transitioned into an ugly sweater party a few years back, and so he hasn’t been Santa for a couple parties anyway. He’s got something perfect this year. A lot of guys go for the ironically ugly sweaters, the ones that are manufactured with a wink, that are _supposed_ to be ugly or funny. Not Brandon. He skimmed eBay until he found the perfect one, a v-neck vest sort of thing that clearly belonged to someone’s grandmother. Paired with a white turtleneck, it’s absolutely hideous.

The first thing he sees when he steps inside the place is Fligs, in some sort of grey t-shirt. It’s holiday themed to be sure, but… “What the fuck, our own captain can’t bring a sweater to the _ugly sweater_ party?” he huffs.

“I have one,” Nick says, defensively. “It’s just hot as hell in here.”

“Suck it up,” Janelle says, wandering over with a glass of wine and a smile. “Hi, Dubi.”

“Nice one,” he tells her with a wink, and heads off to find his own drink.

The party quickly splits off into players and WAGs, as most of these things do. Halfway through drink two everyone is discussing individual sweaters, and Brandon is deep into chirping Boone about his. “What’s it like being a furry?” he asks.

“What?” Boone frowns, adjusting the horns on his hood. His sweater is supposed to make him look like a reindeer. Honestly, it’s kind of cute in a very weird way. Brandon would never admit to that in a million years, though.

“A furry,” Brandon says again. “Those weirdos that dress up and fuck in animal costumes.”

“Go to hell,” Boone shoots back, which is his classic retort for when he doesn’t actually have a good comeback. “Can we just talk about Murr’s hat for a sec?”

Josh Anderson snorts. “Actually I’m pretty sure we should be talking about _your_ sweater, Dubi,” he says. “It makes you look like a child molestor.” Seth Jones smacks his forehead and Josh rolls his eyes. “What now?”

“Andy,” Seth explains patiently, “There’s this whole thing about painting gay dudes as child molestors…”

Josh snorts. “Well he doesn’t look like a pedo because he’s _gay,_ it’s because his sweater - “

“Okay, but - “

“Boys,” Brandon interjects, shaking his head. “It’s cool. I think we all know that Andy says shit because he’s too stupid to do anything but breathe and play hockey, right?”

“You weren’t offended, were you?” Andy looks sort of distressed about it now. “I didn’t mean - “

“Man, it’s cool.” Brandon pats Andy on the arm, and just then, PL slides up and waves at him.

“Picture time, Andy,” Luc says, and yanks at Josh’s arm, and then they’re gone.

It turns out to be a photo opp for the PBJ line. Someone’s brought bread, and Jiffy, and jelly, and the guys are holding their namesake items with a smile for the camera. Both Josh and Artemi have their arms around PL, in the middle, with no hesitation or reluctance. Brandon allows himself a smile at the scene, because there’s Luc, another gay man, right in the middle of those two guys who initially were hesitant about the whole coming-out situation.

Maybe people can change, after all. Even if - like Josh - they make dumbshit comments sometimes.

“Hey, you want another one?” Seth asks, jiggling his solo cup in question. “I’m headed to the fridge.”

Brandon looks down in his own cup. It’s half-full, and normally he’d chug what he has and keep ‘em coming to get drunk. Alcohol sands off the harsh edges, the social awkwardness of being around guys like Calvert that still don’t accept him, the constant nibbling reminder that his season is awful and his coach probably hates him.

But tonight feels a little different, somehow. There’s a lot of good cheer, a warm sort of friendship emanating from just about everyone, and maybe Brandon doesn’t want to totally forget this night. “I think I’m good for now,” he tells Seth. He figures he’ll take it slow and actually wake up on an off day _without_ a hangover. What a concept.

The party keeps its playful happiness up even while the guys get drunker and slowly start drifting away as it gets later and babysitters need to be relieved. He ends up outside on the porch, letting the cold air seep under his sweater and cool him off a little. Nicky’s right. It _is_ hot in there.

Brandon hears the door open, doesn’t bother to turn around because he figures it’s Cam, come to say goodnight and head home. Just as he’s opening his mouth to tease something about having a bedtime, he sees out of the corner of his eye that the new visitor is _significantly_ taller than Cam and glances over.

It’s PL.

And he’s giving that sweet-shy little smile in Brandon’s direction, the one he fell in love with, the one he hasn’t seen directed towards him for months. It makes his breath catch in his throat. “Luc?” he asks, softly, questioningly.

“Brandon,” he murmurs back. There’s a long bubble of silence, as if he’s forgotten how to speak, and Brandon doesn’t quite know how to fill that gap either, so he says nothing. Finally, PL speaks again. “I, uh. I jus’ wanted to tell you. Merry Christmas. _Joyeux Noël.”_ There’s a distinct fuzziness to his words, a slur that indicates just how drunk he is.

“Oh...kay,” Brandon says slowly, staring off the porch at nothing instead of at PL’s dangerous smile. “Well. _Feliz Navidad_ to you too.”

_“Crisse._ You’re a hard man t’hate, B.”

Brandon snorts and takes a half-step sideways, away from Luc, who’s suddenly very close. “Now that ain’t true at all. Ask half the guys in this league. I’m a very _easy_ man to hate. Even before this whole gay thing.”

“Well, not t’me.” Luc closes the gap again, invading Brandon’s personal space, and he can feel the hairs stand up on his arms, gooseflesh prickling. “I want to hate you. _Wanted_ to hate you, an’ I tried, and I succeeded for awhile I think. Yeah, I did. But I can’t hold onto it. Yanno? Because I get it now, right? You were scared. An’ when guys like you are scared, you lash out.”

“What an insight,” Brandon mutters into his drink, throwing the rest of it back in one gulp. “What else do you think you know about me, huh?”

“You still want me,” Luc says, and suddenly he’s _pressed_ against Brandon. Dubi drops his solo cup in shock, watches it bounce gently away in the wind. “Jus’ as much as I still want you.”

“No.”

“Yes. Brandon, yes,” Luc insists, the fervent conviction of a drunk man. “It’s been months and we’ve been nothing but professional, right? _Oui, c’est ça._ So we go and we talk to Coach - or John Davidson, or - or Jarmo, and make them see. That this right here, we’ll be fine. We’ll be so good, B. Or...or you know what? Fuck them, _fuck them_ , nobody has to know what we do, it’s nobody’s business but ours.” Luc puts his hand intimately on Brandon’s hip, and he jerks back, heart hammering in his chest because God, he _does_ want all this so bad, but he can’t have it. Not anymore.

“And how well did that work last time,” he hisses. “It’s over, Luc. Stop. _Please_ fuckin’ stop.”

“Look me in the face and tell me we’re not worth fighting for,” Luc says, and he’s close enough that Brandon can feel his breath, smell the sweet-hot scent of coconut rum.

“You’re not worth my career,” Brandon tells him, truthfully. “You’re not. Nobody is.”

“They wouldn’t - it’s not - we’d be _fine - “_ Luc hiccups, getting a little upset. “You could take me home right now. I’d get on my knees right inside your door and - “

_“Shut up,”_ Brandon hisses, shoving his palm against PL’s mouth to stop him. It’s too late; the images wash over him like a wave. Kissing Luc, tasting that coconut rum, their mouths hot and wet and eager. Luc on his knees, unzipping Brandon’s jeans, surging forward to take a cock in his mouth. The face Luc always makes - Brandon can see it in his head, clear as day - right before he’s about to come, open-mouthed and breathless, like he’s shocked at the pleasure.

Brandon sends up a thanks to the hockey gods that he’s not drunker. If he were, holy shit, they’d probably be in an Uber right now heading back to his place together. Instead, he shuffles backwards, away from Luc, towards the door. “I’m going inside now,” he tells PL, to a hurt puppy-dog stare. “You’re going to stay out here and sober up for a few minutes. And then when you come back inside, I’m going to be gone. And if you want to talk in the morning, fine, okay...but...but none of this getting back together stuff. That’s a dead end, Luc.”

“Dubi. _Brandon - “_

Brandon doesn’t respond, just turns to go, leaving PL hanging as he steps back into the hot indoors. “Oh hey,” a voice beside him says, and this time it is Cam, smiling brightly. “Good timing. We’re just about to head out, wanted to say bye first.”

He doesn’t even have the energy to chirp Cam anymore. “Yeah, I’m heading out too.”

“Long day, eh?”

“You have no idea.”


	23. Chapter 23

Brandon works out the next morning, spending time with the strength and conditioning coaches, and the gym is half as full as it usually is. Evidently, lots of guys are nursing hangovers from last night. Not Brandon, though; for once, after a team party, he feels _great._

Physically, at least. Mentally, he’s still grappling with Luc’s words, his plaintive pleading, the warm weight of his hand on Brandon’s hip. _Nobody has to know what we do._ All evening, and all morning, Brandon’s been fighting with that statement, an ugly internal battle. He swings from being almost convinced of its truth - that they can do better at hiding it, that they can learn from their mistakes, that they won’t fuck it up this time - and then back towards outright rejection. If they do screw it up, it means Brandon’s career. Is he willing to risk this over some dick?

But it’s not just ‘some dick’. It’s love, companionship, someone to wake up next to, someone to spend holidays with. It’s the ever-present void inside of him that can’t be filled up with hockey or money or fan adoration, something that would finally settle in that gap inside him and make him complete.

He figures if he doesn’t get some respite from these thoughts, he’s gonna go crazy, so he works hard in the gym. Hard enough that any thoughts of love and promise are pushed out by _fuck this shit this sucks keep going keep pushing don’t stop don’t stop_ as his muscles burn and scream and his brain can’t do anything but protest the pain. By the time they get in a skate and morning video session comes around, he’s feeling a lot calmer.

Of course, that’s when Luc strolls in and drops down in the seat next to him.

He looks...well, awful isn’t the right word for it. It’s awful by Pierre-Luc Dubois standards, but the kid takes a hangover better than maybe even Brandon himself; hell, Brandon didn't even notice anything amiss during their ice time earlier. Up close, however, there are a few small indications that he's hurting. Brandon can see the faint dark marks under his eyes, smell his too-strong cologne that’s probably covering up the stink of alcohol, and then there's the fact that he has _three_ Gatorades in his hand and is chugging them slowly, one-by-one. “Hey,” he finally says, quietly, after Gatorade number one is in his stomach. His voice sounds like he’s a ten year smoker, gravel and burn from the rum.

“Yo,” Brandon responds in his most casual tone, not looking up from his phone. He’s not quite sure what will happen if he meets Luc’s eye right now.

Luc goes quiet, starting on Gatorade number two, and Brandon feels vaguely like a rabbit stuck next to a wolf, just waiting for _something_ to happen, and that something is probably going to be terrible. But no, Luc just keeps quietly drinking the light blue liquid, all the way up until the coaches arrive and the video session starts in earnest. Brandon puts down his phone and tries to pay attention.

It’s a tough one. Luc isn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be doing; he’s not trying to hold Brandon’s hand or play footsie or any of that inappropriate shit, although about ten minutes in he shifts his weight towards Brandon. Just a small lean to one side of the chair, and it’s a completely normal thing to do, were it anyone else Brandon wouldn’t even have spared a thought towards it. With Luc, though, it’s like he can _feel_ him without even touching, like he’s radiating an aura that settles around Brandon and threatens to suffocate him.

He doesn’t remember much about the video breakdowns when the team finally gets dismissed. Everyone starts standing and stretching, talking about evening plans or cracking jokes, and the room is suddenly a loud whirlwind of activity. Brandon stays in his seat, wanting Luc to get up and head out first, lest he have to scoot past him.

But PL just stays in his seat, glancing over towards Brandon with a small smile. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Uh,” comes Brandon’s undignified answer. It’s not gameday, so the team chefs aren’t making full meals, only snacks and small bites, protein shakes and smoothies. He doesn’t really have a plan.

“Dubi!” Boone’s in his face then, and Brandon sends up a thank-you to whatever hockey gods are watching that Jens is such a socially unaware loudmouth. “Hey! We’re going to Chipotle for lunch! You should come.”

Ryan Murray is standing next to him and, as always, looks vaguely exasperated at Boone’s behavior. “PL, you’re welcome to come too,” he says. “Also, sorry, we weren’t interrupting anything, were we?”

“Nah,” Brandon says, at the same time Luc shakes his head _no._

“Not interrupting. Did you say Chipotle? Hell yeah.” Luc grins, and Brandon tries not to side-eye him, wondering what in the world he has up his sleeve.

As it turns out, Luc doesn’t seem to have any nefarious plans for lunch. A bunch of them go out, and they laugh and talk about subjects bland and safe enough for being in public, and it’s just a nice little meal with friends. Luc himself giggles along to the jokes and nods where appropriate and occasionally interjects to add a comment, but it’s nothing abnormal or weird.

Maybe, Brandon’s starting to think, Luc was so drunk last night he doesn’t remember anything. But that doesn’t explain him sitting next to Brandon during video, or asking about lunch plans; things he hasn’t done since they were actively dating.

Luc still doesn’t say much on the walk back from Chipotle, and as they all grab their cars from the rink garage, the most he offers is a _later, have a good one._ Brandon gets home, grabs a beer from the fridge, and stares at HGTV for awhile, trying to decipher the day. For any other teammate, it would be an extremely banal series of interactions, but this is his _ex._

Is he reading too much into it? Or not enough? Fuck, he’s bad at this emotional shit, and the worst part is he can’t even _ask_ anyone. He would prefer the team never remember that he and PL were once an item, so he’s sure not going to remind anyone, not even Cam or Nick.

The whole rest of the day, there’s a small piece of him that’s convinced there will be a knock on the door, that Luc will be on the other side. It never comes, though.

Brandon’s not sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed.

~~~~~

The next day is much the same, except this time PL actually shows up at the gym, not hungover, and gets in a few sets. He mostly doesn’t interact with Brandon except to murmur an approving _nice!_ while Dubi is bench pressing, a few reps near his max with chains draped along the bar to make it even harder.

Brandon makes sure to sit next to Cam at video this time, a familiar and friendly face he _doesn’t_ have to worry about. PL opts to sit next to Sonny today, but cheerfully waves in his direction. Cam calls back a greeting and Dubi feels like he’s in a fucking episode of the _Twilight Zone,_ like he’s been dropped into an alternate universe where PL is straight and they never fucked. It’s suddenly like they’re any other teammates, as if their history never happened, as if he hadn’t drunkenly come onto Brandon just a few nights before. And Brandon still doesn’t know what the hell to make of it. He’s still waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

PL maintains his friendly-yet-professional facade into pre-game meetings and the locker room, and then it’s warm ups against the Edmonton Oilers and Brandon puts the weirdness temporarily out of his mind to focus on the game. He can already tell it’s going to be a rough one, because everyone from Benning to Lucic is running their mouth across the red line at the Jackets, and although it’s not all directed at Brandon and Luc, Dubi hears plenty of gay slurs.

He catches Nick talking to Connor McDavid in the neutral zone, and feels a pang of anger and shame. More and more, Fliggy is having to do “the talk” with the other team captain about the slurs and the catcalls. Brandon feels like a burden to Nick; it’s not a fun conversation, certainly.

“Well it’s not the gay thing,” he can hear McDavid saying, “so much as it is the fucking your teammate thing. Come on, Foligno, you don’t think your team would be all over that shit if the situations were reversed?”

“None of my guys would be calling all of you _‘faggots’,”_ Nick retorts.

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“So that makes it suddenly okay?”

Brandon glides up next to Nick, smoothly interjecting himself between the two captains. To Nick, he says: “It’s fine, Fliggy, it’s cool,” and to McDavid, he offers a scowl and a “go fuck yourself and leave us alone.”

“Bitch,” McDavid mutters in Brandon’s direction, but turns and skates away.

Nick chuffs in indignation. “D’you _hear_ this shit - “

“Of course I do, Fligs. Of fucking course I do,” Brandon says, because how can he _not_ hear it all when most of it’s directed towards him and PL? “But it’s just words. Like you haven’t been called every name in the book? Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it’s hockey. You don’t have to police the other team’s speech for me.”

“But - “

“I would prefer you didn’t.” Brandon knows those are probably going to be the magic words, because if Nick continues to disagree, he’s directly going against Dubi’s wishes.

Sure enough, it shuts him up. “I just hate it,” Nick mumbles, and he sounds so upset, like he’s somehow _failed_ Brandon, that it makes him physically ache for a moment. And then the sadness is gone, replaced by a fury. Fuck the Oilers. Fuck them for bringing his captain down. Fuck them for what they’re doing to Luc; even across the rink, Brandon can see his tight-lipped scowl as he stick handles a puck in front of him. _Fuck_ the Oilers.

“Dubinsky, you suck his dick in the showers after the games?” Zack Kassian smirks at them as he skates by, the confident grin of a guy that isn’t often fucked with. “You wanna suck mine instead?”

“Now who’s gay?” Brandon shoots back.

“Oh, I never said I’d _let_ you suck me off, just that you probably want to.” Kassian reaches down to adjust his jock with a wink and skates off.

Beside him, Nick is seething. “This fucking team,” he growls. “Fuck this team.”

“Let’s destroy them, just like we did the Ducks,” Brandon says.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t go that way at all. The Oilers go up 1-0 in the first on a goal by Kassian of all people; Brandon’s not on the ice, but Zack yaps the whole way back towards the benches, sneering about how a _man_ scores instead of the scoring the Jackets are doing in the locker room. Brandon can feel the bench shift restlessly, annoyed.

The second is even worse. It’s 5-0 Oilers by the end; Torts is blowing his top, Brandon’s teammates are getting more agitated and the Oilers continue to chirp and spit insults. Brandon can _feel_ the game turn ugly, is powerless to stop his own game from ramping up. At some point, Mark Letestu - his former Jacket teammate - quietly tells Dubi right before a faceoff that he’s a supporter, and he should be able to live his life free, and some other platitude bullshit that Brandon has zero time for. He ends up staring at Mark, not saying anything, until the puck drops.

By the time the third rolls around, the game is well out of control, and Brandon thrums with a righteous, indignant fury; the anger of a sore loser, the one that says if he can’t win the game, he’ll be more than happy just to take someone out.

So he hits, harder and harder, getting a little more reckless with each shift. He adds a little stick to the hit he puts on Strome, and gets up under Draisaitl in an awkward way that leaves him laying on the ice. He doesn’t want to _injure_ someone, but if someone has to leave the ice and not play the rest of the game because of a legal hit, well…

The Oilers don’t like it. But they can fuck right off.

Brandon glances up at the clock as he skates out for his last shift. Under two minutes to go in this 7-2 clusterfuck of a game. Thank _god._ This game can go to hell. He wins the faceoff against Letestu and starts to turn, but there’s suddenly a jolt, someone huge bumping into him.

“Fuck you, you pussy-ass faggot,” Kassian snarls in his ear, low enough that the refs can’t hear. “Running our guys all night, fuck you. You want someone to put you in your place? You get off on that shit?”

“Wow, I hit your guys clean and they all come crying and sniveling to you? And you call _me_ a pussy? Learn to take a fucking hit, jackass.”

Kassian shoves him, face screwed up in anger. “Let’s go,” he puffs. “Fight me. C’mon, you fuckin’ fairy. Let’s go.”

Nick’s right behind him, and before he can say _Dubi, don’t,_ Brandon’s got his gloves off. He knows Kassian is a fighter, but fuck it, if someone challenges him to a fight, he’s not backing down. _Especially_ now that he’s been outed. He can’t be seen as a wuss, can’t be seen as someone who turns down a fight, can’t add to that stigma of being a gay man.

Brandon’s been in a scrap or three in his career, and he knows what to do. First step is to grab the other man’s shoulder so he can’t take a swing at you, and he’ll probably do the same, and then it’s a careful dance of trying to untangle _your_ arm while keeping _his_ arm at bay. Brandon goes to hold Zack’s right arm, and to his shock, Kassian lets him have it easily.

Because, he realizes a split second later, Kassian is a _lefty._

He’s a sitting duck. Zack’s fist is already swinging towards his face as he realizes his error, and it hits clean and solid into his eye, and his world _explodes_ in pain. “Fuck!” he screams, instantly ducking and trying to protect his face. Kassian should know he’s injured, but he doesn’t let up. The second blow glances off his helmet, but the third, fourth, fifth smack into his injured eye, and every punch brings bile to the back of his throat, the pain so bad he feels like he’s going to throw up or pass out. Brandon knows instantly that it’s bad, the injured reserve kind of bad, and he can feel blood trickling down his face. He hears Nick shouting to stop, but the words are fuzzy, almost like he’s underwater.

“Fucking gross,” Zack growls when he sees the blood. “You better not have given me AIDS.”

“Hey!” the linesman yelps, pushing Kassian away while the other linesman helps steer Brandon to the bench. It’s a necessary assist; his one eye is totally useless right now.

Brandon gets to the bench and one of his teammates loops a hand around his arm while the trainer presses a towel to his face, where there’s another starburst of agony at the touch. “It’s bad, it’s bad, it’s bad,” he tells the trainer, and he can hear Torts curse as he’s led down the hallway towards the medical room. As soon as he’s confident none of his teammates are around to hear, he breaks down further and begs. “PKs, need - please, fuck, _fuck_ \- please give me PKs,” he moans. A PK is a painkiller, and he knows the trainers have ample supply of the good shit, although he’ll be damned if he’s seen begging for one in front of his teammates.

They give him something, and he lays on the medical table and prays for it to kick in as they examine his face. He grinds his teeth together while the med staff work; he has to prevent himself from lashing out in a wounded-animal sort of way every time his face gets touched or jostled. Finally, the verdict comes in. Fractured orbital bone; how badly fractured, they won’t be 100% sure until the swelling goes down. Surgery’s a toss-up. _Probably_ no vision loss of any sort, although Brandon’s world is blurry and dark right now, so he prays that they’re correct. The idea that Zack fucking Kassian might have just ended his career - 

He lays back and stares at the blurry ceiling, and tries to stay calm as the PKs kick in. He can feel his anxiety slowly float away. Everything will be just fine. Everything _is_ fine. Amazing. Perfect.

“How’s he doing?” he can hear various people ask - he recognizes Torts, Fliggy, Cam, a few other voices. By now, he’s floating in a sweet chemical bath of painkillers, the drugs blowing away his worries, distorting his reality. “I’m fine,” he tries to say, but he has no idea if he even says the words out loud, or if anyone’s around to hear them by the time he talks.

 _Time,_ his loopy brain reminds him, _isn’t real, anyway. Nothing is real._

Actually, that’s not true. Something is real. He hears PL’s voice and instantly perks up. _Pierre-Luc Dubois_ is real as shit, and he’s talking to Nick about something. “What’s happening,” Brandon demands, and he can see Luc and Nick glance over with sympathetic smiles.

“Are you sure?” Nick is asking Luc.

“Totally, Fligs. You have a family, you should go home to them.”

“He’s got a very nice family. I love his kids. His wife is so nice, I’d definitely bang her if I was straight,” Brandon babbles, because it feels _very important_ that they know these facts at this exact moment. “I mean like if they weren’t married. Like I would never be a homewrecker, you know? _You know?”_

“Have fun with that,” Nick says to PL.

The next thing Brandon knows he’s in a hallway, and the walls are flying by but he’s not walking, and he finds it the most marvelous thing in the world. “How am I moving,” he shrieks in glee, finally glancing down. “Oh fuuuuuuck it’s a wheelchair.”

Nick snorts. “How many PKs did they _give_ you?”

They wheel Brandon out to Nick’s SUV, and he stumbles as Nick and PL help him up, load him into the backseat and snap on the seatbelt. “Don’t leave me, you guys are the best,” he moans, but the door shuts anyway. By the time Nick climbs into the driver’s seat, he’s already fast asleep.

He only catches quick snippets of consciousness after that as the pair work to get him up to his place. Suddenly he’s in his parking garage - then his elevator - then his apartment - finally, his bed. There’s Nick sternly telling PL that Brandon gets _one_ Vicodin in the morning, and he wants to protest, to say that Vicodin won’t do anything, not like whatever they have him on now, fentanyl or Dilaudid probably, he wants more of _this_ shit. But then Nick is gone, and Luc is leaning over him with a smile. Even through Brandon’s reduced vision, he can see his toothy grin. “I got you, B,” he says. “I got you tonight. It’s all good. You’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah I’ll be fine. Cause you’re here. I love you,” he blurts out, because what the hell else can he say?

He doesn’t remember what Luc says in response. He doesn’t remember another damn thing about that evening at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the Kassian / Dubi fight [here, if you'd like.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uiz9VsHdC2k) I like that at 0:20 you can hear someone (presumably) screaming at Brandon that he's a "fucking pussy".


	24. Chapter 24

The first thing Brandon wonders as he wakes up the next morning is how he got into a bar fight, because he can’t think of any other reason why he feels the way he does. His head is groggy like he’s hungover, his knuckles hurt, his face is fucking _killing_ him. All the signs are there, but he can’t remember going to a bar, and he hasn’t been in a drunken brawl since juniors. Torts is gonna fucking kill him.

“Brandon, you’re awake. How d’you feel?” comes the question, and that snaps him abruptly back to reality. There was no bar, but there was definitely a fight. He remembers Kassian, and pain, and then...not much else. He barely remembers Luc taking him home.

“Luc,” he croaks out, and his mouth feels like the Sahara desert. He cracks his eyes open and there’s a cold glass of water in front of him, and as he sits up to drink it, the pain in his face goes from about a 6 to a 9. “Ow ow _ow_ goddamn motherfucker shit cunt. _Fuck_ that hurts.”

“Take this too,” PL says, and holds out a tiny white pill in his other hand. It’s Vicodin - Brandon’s taken enough of them to know that - but he also knows it’s not near enough to bring this pain down to a level where it won’t bother him all day.

He pops the pill in his mouth, takes a swig of water. “Gimme another.”

“Uh - “ PL frowns, shaking his head. “Instructions were to give you one.”

“Who the fuck said that? You must have heard wrong.”

“Fliggy said that, and he was very insistent. I remember. Sorry, B.”

Brandon groans, swigging down the rest of the water to prevent himself from saying something he’ll regret later; he’s already got enough shit he regrets saying to PL to add another thing to the list. _One_ fucking Vicodin though, really? Brandon’s old enough to remember when these things were given out like candy in the league.

Fucking addicts, ruining shit for everybody.

Brandon tries getting out of bed, but he’s immediately unsteady on his feet. His vision is still sort of double, and it’s throwing his equilibrium out of whack. He stumbles into his bedside dresser and Luc is there in an instant, steadying him, a warm body stuck to his side. “Lemme help,” he says. “Where to?”

“Gotta piss,” Brandon mutters, and he makes his way over to his en suite with Luc. PL has a firm arm wrapped around his waist, and even in the pain he’s in, his brain registers some pleasure at the touch, at having someone here to help and take care of him. Luc leans on the sink as Brandon shuffles up to the toilet. “You don’t have to watch me, Luc, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Luc says. “Besides, I’ve seen your dick before. Up close and personal, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” Brandon murmurs under his breath. He manages to stay steady while he pees, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The entire side of his face is bloomed an ugly color, yellow and purple and even black, and his eye looks just as fucked as it feels. Once again there’s a wash of panic, that this is it, it’s not going to heal, his career is finished and he’s gonna have vision problems for the rest of his life. He finishes peeing, tucks himself back into his boxers and is leaning dangerously back before he even recognizes that he’s falling, but Luc’s there in an instant, holding him upright.

“I got you,” he says cheerfully, instead of going with the more obvious gloating _I told you, you’re not fine,_ and the panic over his injury morphs into a bloom of affection that Brandon can’t tamp back.

Luc brings Brandon a set of clothes and makes him promise to sit on the bed while getting dressed, and then heads to the kitchen to make protein shakes. Getting dressed sucks, and Brandon’s exhausted by the time he’s wriggled into his clothes, sweats and a shirt, comfortable clothes because he knows he’s not working out or skating today. He doesn’t even have the energy to shuffle into the kitchen, the pain a constant dull hum with the occasional jolt of agony as he twists his head, so he sits on his bed and feels sorry for himself until Luc returns with the shakes. “Thanks,” he says, staring into the blender bottle and trying to muster up some sort of appetite.

Luc plops down next to him on the bed, drinking his own shake, and he’s quiet for a long moment before nudging Brandon. “Drink,” he says. “It’s not _that_ bad. I can use a blender.”

“Just not hungry,” Brandon says, but takes a long swig.

“Yeah, I get it. They said that punch tore both your eyelids, upper and lower. Probably hurts like a bitch. What happened out there, anyway?”

“He challenged me to a fight. I’m not backing down if someone wants to go.”

“But…” Luc frowns, shifts a little closer. “Dubi, it was _7-2._ There was nothing to be gained from it.”

“Thanks, coach,” Brandon shoots back, watches the little frown line in Luc’s face crease up. “Look, Kassian was saying some real vile shit, and...and the last thing I need is for people to think I’m _soft,_ okay. I can’t be gay and soft. I’ll fucking get murdered out there.”

“Nobody would think you’re soft if you didn’t - “

“Stop, please, okay. Just stop.” Brandon doesn’t know if Luc actually believes what he’s saying, and maybe that’s true of this next generation, these young kids that didn’t grow up in the goon era. But there’s still plenty of guys that are Dubi’s age in the league, leaders and veterans and guys that influence the locker rooms, and those are the men who grew up with the code of conduct that dictated that Brandon could not turn down Kassian for a brawl.

Luc huffs a sigh, but nods and stands, extending a hand out to Brandon. “You ready to go to the rink? You have an appointment with the docs.”

Brandon takes his hand and goes readily. The doctors will have more pain killers, and he’s betting he can wrangle at least _one_ extra Vicodin from them.

~~~~~

Everyone’s sympathetic at the rink. Brandon gets lots of shoulder pats and _get-well-soons_ and _we-need-yous_ from his teammates. Even the journalists go out of their way to wish him well, although he covers his eye with a ballcap every time he sees one of them. Last thing he needs is a gory description of his injury all over the media.

He ends up stuck in the med area while his teammates head off for video and ice session, and Brandon remembers why injuries suck so bad. It’s not just the lack of playing or the inability to work out, but the _isolation_ is a real mindfuck. All your buddies are out there killing it in the gym and on the rink, and depending on what’s injured, you’re just sitting at home...alone...bored and lonely and frustrated. No fun road trips, no team bonding time.

Brandon waits until he’s sure that all of his teammates and coaches are out of the med area before complaining bitterly about the pain, and the doctors check his chart and take note of his last Vicodin dose. Then, just as he suspected, they offer additional PKs, something injected so Brandon knows it’s the good shit, and slightly less than an hour later he’s floating on the medical bed, not a care in the world even as they prod and poke at him. Now they’re saying that surgery is likely, a metal plate to hold his face together, but they can’t be 100% sure until the swelling goes down in about a week.

“Until then, we’ll send you home with a few painkillers. You’ll probably be sensitive to light. Sleep when you need to, _do not_ work out or do anything strenuous, and let’s see you again in three days to check on the swelling and see if we can make a surgical determination. We’re looking at six-to-eight weeks, I think.”

Brandon snorts, staring at the bright lights on the ceiling. “I’m fine, you could just do the surgery now. Let’s do it, doc, let’s do it.” He’s loopy again, from the PKs, but what he’s saying makes perfect sense to him. Why wait? Maybe his time off could be _five_ weeks if they just do the damn surgery today.

The doc chuckles and shakes his head. “Too much swelling, Brandon, but we’ll get you back up and running soon enough. Oh, and let Dubois or someone else drive you home again. Don’t drive on these painkillers, as I’m sure you know.”

“Uh huh,” Brandon says, only half-listening except maybe to that part about _Dubois driving you home_ because that sounds awful nice. He has nothing to do until his teammates are done with their ice session, so he gets helped into a nice comfy chair, the team chefs put smoothies and some softer-type food in front of him (everything - including chewing - hurts when you break your orbital bone, who fucking knew) and he idly eats while he answers text messages.

He has a lot of them, a bunch of guys he used to play with sending well-wishes. A few of them also take the opportunity to finally say some supportive shit about him being gay, like they needed some excuse to reach out. And some of the guys try to express it _subtly,_ except NHL players are about as subtle as an 18-wheeler going down a side street, with Del Zotto saying some shit about living your best life and Zuccarello talking about meeting the right person with this stupid winky face.

It could be worse; Scotty Hartnell has sent him about 20 pictures of half-naked dudes and then MAYBE THIS WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER in all-caps and Brandon laughs despite himself, even though it kind of hurts to smile.

He ends up dozing in the chair in a warm fog of painkillers until Cam comes up and rouses him from sleep. “Hey dummy, I’m taking you home. You ready to go?”

“Where’s Luc?” he mutters, wiping the side of his chin which feels a little damp from drool, still half-asleep.

“Oh, I told him not to worry about your dumb ass today, you’re with me. How do you feel about a nice long HGTV marathon with yours truly? Maybe I’ll even bake lemon bars.”

Lemon bars are firmly off the nutritionist-approved food list for the season, but Brandon has a severe weakness for Cam’s lemon bars - the only thing he actually bakes well - and he’s feeling pretty sorry for himself anyway. Fuck it, one or two couldn’t hurt. “Okay, but don’t let me eat more than two.”

“You got it, bud. Do you have confectioner’s sugar at home?”

Brandon blinks dumbly at the question. He can barely remember what his kitchen _looks_ like right now, much less what he has in it. Cam seems to recognize his difficulty and smirks. “Maybe I’ll stop at the store on the way.”

~~~~~

Cam lets Brandon sit in his car while he runs in to buy ingredients. He drives this huge fuck-you Range Rover which Brandon constantly makes fun of _(big car, small man, smaller dick_ is generally his preferred chirp) but right now he’s grateful that he can just sink back into the comfortable seat and nap.

Until his phone rings. In this day and age, a phone call can mean some real bad shit, especially with his brother being in the military overseas. His eyes can’t quite focus on the name of the caller, so he picks up with a quiet, “Hello?”

“Dubi? You okay?”

It’s an extremely familiar sounding voice, and he pulls his phone back again to squint at the caller ID. He makes out a _B_ for the first and an _S_ for the last name and it suddenly clicks. Brandon Saad. “Saader, that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well I texted you last night to tell you to get your ass better soon, and then you texted back this morning with...Dubi, I don’t even know if it was English you were writing.”

“Uh oh.” Brandon remembers all the texts he’s replied to this morning, high on the influence of painkillers. They’d all made perfect sense at the time he was writing them, but perhaps he overestimated his ability to type and be coherent on PKs. “Uh, sorry. They shot me up with something good and well, it looked like English to me.”

Saad laughs, sounding relieved. “It wasn’t at all,” he says. “When you get off your high, read what you wrote to me. It’s pretty epic. I just figured maybe you’d have been kidnapped or something and this was your cry for help.”

Brandon snorts. “If I got kidnapped, what makes you think I’d call _you_ for help?”

“Hey! I’m like, a responsible human.”

“Saader, your nickname is _manchild._ And not just because you made the show early, ya doof. Also, you’re in Chicago now, and I’m...you know...not?”

Brandon can hear Saader chuckle, low. “Maybe the kidnappers took you to Chicago. Ever think of that?”

“Uh.” Brandon’s having trouble thinking of _anything_ right now, really. He can see Cam coming back, a few grocery bags in hand, and all he really wants to do is eat lemon bars and mindlessly stare at the TV for awhile. “Hey Saader, I gotta run. Brain is still kinda broke. Maybe talk later or something?”

“Sure, bud. Hopefully some good news about your face, huh?”

Brandon knows there isn’t, but he grunts out a goodbye as Cam is sliding into the car. “Who was that?” he asks.

“Why you wanna know, nosy? It was Saader.”

“Manchild? What did he want?”

Brandon shrugs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat. “I guess when I was tripping on PKs I sent a whole bunch of nonsense texts and shit, including to him.”

Cam laughs. “Well hopefully you didn’t profess your undying love or something. Take it from me, PKs can make you blurt out some weird shit.”

“Luckily, everyone who texted me is an ugly motherfucker who I’d never have sex with.”

“Hey, _I_ texted you.”

Brandon smirks, not opening his eyes as Cam pulls out of the parking lot. “My statement still stands.”

Cam punches his leg in response. It’s not _quite_ true what he said; he’d definitely bang Cam, and there’s a few other guys who he probably wouldn’t kick out of bed that have texted him. He’s confident there was no texts from him declaring interest, though.

Except - 

The memory hits him like a ton of bricks. A swell of adrenaline pops his eyes open, staring at the sky through the moonroof. _Luc._ Holy fuck, did he say _I love you_ to Luc?! He can’t be sure, can’t exactly remember, and the circumstances before and after that statement are just a void. He has no idea what lead up to it, or what occurred afterwards, if indeed it happened at all.

Maybe he’s remembering wrong, because this morning Luc wasn’t acting _that_ weird. He didn’t try and kiss Brandon or say _I love you_ in return or anything. It’s true that he had his arm around Brandon a few times, but that was just because he was unsteady on his feet and needed a little extra help.

Wasn’t it?

Shit.

“Are you tripping again?” Cam asks, and Brandon realizes he’s staring wild-eyed up into nowhere as his brain turns over last night’s events, fuzzy in their recollection.

“No. Just - no. Fine,” Brandon huffs out and squeezes his eyes shut again, but his heart is hammering too hard to relax or go back to sleep. He spends the rest of the ride to his place trying to calm down while Cam sings - poorly and off-key - along to his Spotify.

~~~~~

Brandon eats _three_ lemon bars while they watch a movie on Netflix, the desserts tart enough that they burn his mouth a little with the citrus. He feels dumb, comfort-eating his way through his feelings like a fat chick, but holy fuck the lemon bars are good. Cam makes him laugh with his goofy commentary, and feeds him another Vicodin, and Brandon feels a lot better by the time Cam has to go back to his wife. Once Cam leaves, he stumbles into his bedroom and crashes out, pulling the blackout shades down, because the sunlight is starting to bother him.

He wakes up to the smell of food and some clattering in his kitchen. Cam’s back, apparently, and looking at the bedside clock it’s not only dinner time but maybe even time for another Vicodin, so Brandon shuffles sleepily out of bed. He’s just in boxers to sleep so he throws on a t-shirt, but doesn’t bother with pants. God knows Cam has seen him in much less.

It’s some sort of fish, Brandon can tell as he gets closer to the kitchen and the smell sharpens into something recognizable. He’s pondering whether he wants to make a vagina joke when he rounds the corner, and any sort of chirp dies in his throat.

It’s not Cam. It’s Luc.

“Hey!” Luc says, half a lemon bar shoved in his mouth, upon seeing Brandon. “I was just gonna wake you. Damn, these are good lemon bars.”

“Cam made them earlier. Uh - “ he’s suddenly very aware that he is not wearing pants, just his boxers, so he shuffles backwards. “Be right back.”

He’s back in his bedroom fast enough that he almost smacks into the doorway in his haste, and his earlier dilemma comes right back to him as he puts on a pair of sweats. What the fuck did he say to Luc while he was high? Should he even mention it? Or pretend like nothing happened even though maybe it did?

Shit, shit, shit.

He can’t hide from Luc forever, so after a few more moments of nervous fretting, he heads back out to the kitchen and tries to act normal. “You brought something?”

“Soup,” Luc points to a bag. “I picked that up. But I’m cooking salmon.”

“You cook, huh?” Brandon stifles a yawn. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not an invalid.”

“I wanted to. You’re only 24 hours removed from the injury, after all. Besides, you’ll be on your own for awhile after this. We have a game tomorrow and then a road trip.”

The game, the road trip. All things that Brandon _should_ be part of, but won’t be, because of Zack fucking Kassian. Home games aren’t so bad; Brandon will still head to the arena, watch from the press box, be a small part of the whole experience. But road trips are brutal. Just him and his apartment, all alone, watching the boys on television just like every other schmuck.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Brandon asks when Luc sets down a very nice-looking salmon and green beans in front of him, along with the soup. Luc didn’t do _any_ cooking when they were together, relying on him and Savard’s family and the team chefs and Chipotle for just about every meal.

“Gotta earn my keep at Savy’s house, eh? I mean, there’s still only a few things I can cook, but of those things I do ‘em pretty well, by now. This is one of them. And it should be soft enough to eat pretty easily with your injury.” Luc grabs his own plate, and there’s another salmon filet and more veggies and soup for him and _oh,_ they’re going to eat a meal together. Well then.

“You wanna eat in the living room?” Brandon asks, because eating in front of the television is a much safer prospect than here in the dining room, where they have only conversation to entertain each other.

“Oh, sure.” Luc grabs both plates before he can protest, and as Brandon follows along, he notices Luc sets them down next to each other, so they can eat side-by-side on the couch.

_Well_ then.

Brandon checks the schedule and notes there’s a Rangers-Senators game playing, so he turns it on. He still likes to watch his old New York teammates sometimes, and the meal passes quickly and quietly as they eat and watch the second period. He’s just finishing up - Luc is already done eating - as the game heads to intermission, and Brandon quickly flips to the other game, Bruins-Red Wings. Nope, that’s on intermission as well, and the West games haven’t started yet. Which means their entertainment has temporarily dried up. Which means - 

Sure enough, Luc starts talking. “So...the more I think about it, the more I understand why you did it. Why you had to fight him. It’s real fucked up out there for you, isn’t it?”

Brandon peers at Luc from his good eye. “And it’s not for you?”

“Oh it is, but...I think you get the worst of it. Sometimes guys from the other team come up to me and say something like, ‘that was a real shitty thing he did to you’. Like it wasn’t consensual or something, like...like I’m actually straight and you just seduced me. Or something.”

Brandon snorts, closing his eyes, the bright lights from the television starting to give him a headache. “If I had _that_ superpower, Luc, to make straight boys turn gay...well, pretty sure the entire league would know by now. The shit I could do with that.”

“No kidding.” Brandon can _feel_ Luc shift a little closer, even if he can’t see it with his eyes still closed. “But yeah, you definitely get it the worst. And I don’t think anyone really understands what you’re going through. Maybe not even me. I mean, you’re here on the IR because you had to stick up for yourself over who you _love._ How fucked up is that?”

“It sucks,” Brandon gruffs out, and his eyes are burning a little, and _fuck no_ he’s not going to cry, not right now, not about this.

“It does,” Luc agrees, and then there are firm arms around him, tugging him close. Brandon resists for a couple seconds, fear taking over, afraid of what will happen if he allows this hug. 

“Brandon, please. It’s okay,” Luc whispers, and everything crumbles then, with Brandon going soft and pliant against Luc with a whimper. He successfully holds back a sob but he doesn’t have the energy to resist anything else, and he lets Luc gather him into his arms and hold him for a long moment while the intermission rambles on about scoring chances and defensive plays in the background. “You remember what you told me last night?”

“No,” Brandon says, voice heavy with tears that he won’t let fall. Here it is, the moment of truth.

Luc’s rubbing his back now, a soothing gesture, and his traitor body melts a little further into Luc, starved for touch and affection and for someone to just tell him _it will all be okay,_ even if that’s a lie. His mind rebels, part of it screaming how bad of an idea this is, but he can’t seem to pull away. “You said...you told me you loved me.” Luc’s voice is soft in his ear, his breath puffing hot against Brandon’s cheek. “I know you were pretty out of it, so you’ll use that an excuse, but some part of you still loves me, just like some part of me still loves you. I know it. I _know.”_

“Luc.” Brandon’s rational side finally wins out, and he manages to gently push the younger man away from him, rubbing at his red-rimmed eye, the good one. “It’s like I told you at the sweater party. We _can’t._ It’s not that I don’t want to, God fucking knows I do, but you’re asking me to risk my career for you, and that’s a real shitty thing to ask.”

“I get it,” Luc says. “I thought about what you told me at the party. So no dating, no sex, but...Brandon, I still want you in my life. We can eat together, and hang out, and then if we end up cuddled on the couch together watching TV, who the fuck cares? It won’t go any further than that. I just - I miss you, and I miss being in your arms, and if that’s _all_ we can have, I’m okay with that.”

_Bullshit_. The word is almost out of his mouth, lips forming the _B,_ but he chokes it down and thinks about it. His initial strong conviction that Luc could never keep this a platonic friendship with a little cuddling on the side breaks down the more he thinks about how much he wants all that, too. He wants Luc in his apartment, giggling at every one of Brandon’s terrible jokes. He wants to watch a movie pressed up against Luc’s side. He wants to wake up with his head pillowed on Luc’s shoulder, _God_ does he fucking want.

Maybe they can make it work.

Maybe.

Probably, right? They’re both grown adults.

Yeah, they could definitely make this work.

Instead of answering, Brandon shifts over to Luc, curling against his side. He needs a friendly touch, _craves_ it, just wants to be held for a little while and comforted. “Brandon,” Luc sighs happily, arms going around him, sounding so pleased. “So I was thinking maybe I could spend the night? Make sure you’re doing okay, that you got everything you need.”

Brandon has a spare bedroom, but the idea of falling asleep with an arm slung around his waist, a firm body tucked against his back... “You could, uh, I mean. I have a pretty large king bed. But you’d keep your clothes on, right?”

“Of course. We’re just friends, eh?”

“Friends,” Brandon agrees.

“Hey, you want a lemon bar? I kinda want another.”

Brandon thinks about it for a moment. He’s already had too many, so it’s probably a terrible idea, but he’s finding it hard to turn it down. “Okay,” he says, and Luc gently untangles himself and heads to the kitchen, beaming a smile at Brandon that makes him go warm inside.

The lemon bar is delicious. How can he turn down something so good?


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I link a GIF and a video. The GIF is SFW, the video is not.

The alarm comes too early the next day, and Brandon doesn’t want to get up, wants to drift back to sweet oblivion, because everything is uncomfortable. He’s got a pressure headache at the back of his skull, there’s an ulcer forming on his cheek from all the citrus he ate yesterday (goddamn lemon bars), and something is tickling the back of his neck. Groggily, he stops the incessant beeping and then reaches back to rub at the sensation, to swat it away.

“Hey,” comes a sleepy squawk from behind, Luc’s voice right in his ear, and Brandon recognizes now the wiry beard hair against his neck. That’s right; they’d fallen asleep together, Brandon’s head pillowed on Luc’s shoulder at the time. It had occurred to him then, as it does now, that this type of cuddling isn’t exactly _just-friends_ level, but he figures as long as they don’t go further, it’ll be fine. Even more than sex or orgasms, he’s missed this soft intimacy of waking up next to someone, the way Luc’s accent is heavier in the mornings before he truly wakes up, his warm body wrapped around him.

“It tickles. Toldja to shave it,” Brandon murmurs, trying for a joke. Luc laughs softly, and then there’s a warm weight pressing close, Luc’s arms folding around his torso with a sigh.

“Ten more minutes? M’sleepy.”

Brandon really wants a Vicodin, but then Luc nuzzles up against his shoulder with another sleepy little huff. “Ten more minutes,” Brandon agrees, trying not to sound as breathless as he feels.

The headache won’t let him go back to sleep, but that’s alright. Instead, he spends the next ten minutes listening to Luc’s soft even breathing in his ear, luxuriating in the strong arms holding him tight, the intimate tangle of their legs together. Luc’s foot is cold, so he traps it between his calves to warm it up, and PL gives a pleased little grunt that goes straight to Brandon’s gut. If he didn’t have such a headache he’d probably be hard by now, so there’s a silver lining to everything, he supposes.

The alarm blares again and Luc groans, rolling off and grabbing his phone. “One of those mornings,” he grumbles as he checks his messages and social media, the phone screen illuminating his face. “I coulda stayed in bed another hour. You’re comfy.”

Brandon deliberately ignores this last sentence, because he has no idea how to appropriately respond to it, and flops back down. “Well, I _can_ stay in bed. Can you get me a Vic?”

“Oh shit, yeah. You want me to make you breakfast? Protein shake?”

“No,” Brandon mumbles into his pillow. He wants opioids and sleep and Luc’s body pressed back against him, is what he wants. Two out of three will have to do.

He must pass back out after he takes the pill, because next thing he knows Luc is hovering over him, dressed to leave, soft hoodie draped on his big shoulders. “I made you a shake anyway, try and drink it,” he says, once Brandon has cracked his eyes open in acknowledgement. “I gotta go do some stuff, but I’ll be back for a late lunch. I’ll bring Chipotle!”

“You an’ fuckin’ Chipotle,” Brandon grumbles without malice. “You’re gonna give their CEO a raise.”

Luc honks his little laugh that Brandon finds so endearing. “Well I’ll bring lunch and then maybe I can get my pre-game nap in here and then we’ll go to the rink together.”

“‘Kay.”

“Feel better, B.” Luc gently rubs his side right above his hip, a little reassuring touch, and then he’s gone.

“Fuck,” Brandon curses under his breath, and he can feel a chill from where Luc has rucked his shirt up, a sliver of skin along his hip exposed to the cold air. He pictures Luc going further, peeling off the fabric. Gently, so gently in his rough state, Luc’s wiry beard tickling as he mouths little kisses along Brandon’s shoulder blade. _I’ll make you feel better,_ Luc says in his mind, accent a little huskier as it gets when he’s turned on, and - 

The Vicodin has worked well enough to dull his headache to a dim thump, and now his cock presses insistently against his sweat pants at the fantasy. He doesn’t fight it even as his stomach churns nervously at the idea of jerking it to Luc, how _dangerous_ it is to think about him like this. It’s a quick session, hand moving fast, not wanting to prolong it but aching for the release. He comes just as he starts fucking Luc’s mouth in his fantasy, drool stringing down his chin, staring up at Brandon with an intense half-lidded gaze, mouth stretched wide.

He lays there for a long minute until he can grab a tissue, wipe off his stomach, and he’s back asleep in minutes, exhaustion overwriting the guilt.

~~~~~

Luc does bring Chipotle, but all Brandon can manage is some rice and the protein shake from the morning as he fights waves of nausea. He lets Luc cuddle him during his pre-game nap and drives to the rink with him for the game, where the team doc has made a special trip in for him. The doctor examines his face and declares that he _will_ need surgery, tentatively schedules it for right after Christmas. Just what he fucking needs.

Between that and watching the pre-game bustle that he misses so fucking much already - equipment guys scrambling to get everything done, the heavy boom of bass in the arena above him, the smell of pre-game meals freshly cooked and eaten - Brandon is feeling a little sorry for himself. He’s going to be an outsider to this scene for months, his team moving on, battling without him. They’ll be creating memories, forming bonds, and he’ll be stuck on the couch. Most of the vets on the team know better than to give him more sympathy, but Cam seems to recognize he’s down and has been playfully teasing him into a better mood all evening.

“You’re damn lucky, Dubi,” Cam tells him as he’s re-taping his stick. “I mean about the gay thing. Trust me, chicks do _not_ dig scars. But dudes? Hell yeah, that shit is hot.”

“You find me sexy, short stuff?”

Cam stops taping just long enough to wink up at Brandon. “It’ll be a sexy scar,” he says.

Boone’s messing around with his shin guards at a nearby stall, and he glances up with a dopey expression. “Do gay men even care about faces?”

Brandon blinks his good eye at Boone, confused. “Uh, what?”

“Like, don’t gay men just care more about your dick size? Like it doesn’t matter what you look like. If you have a huge dick, you could look like Andy over here and it wouldn’t matter.”

“Fuck you,” Josh retorts, not looking up from tying his skates.

Brandon wants to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation, but that would hurt too much with the state his face is in, so he just sighs. “I mean, it’s a...combination of things. Would you bang an ugly chick with huge tits?”

“Nah,” Boone says, at the same time Andy says _fuck yes._

“Depends on how ugly,” Cam says.

“Well there you go Jens, I rest my case.” Boone looks even more confused, like he’s going to ask more questions, so Brandon takes the opportunity to escape to the press box before his head starts hurting from trying to explain the nuances of attraction to Boone fucking Jenner.

It’s a big bounce-back game for the Jackets, a 6-4 win over the division rival Islanders, and Luc scores a powerplay goal which has Brandon pumping his fist in celebration. It’s not the niftiest goal he’s ever seen, but Luc is in the exact right place he needs to be to get the tally.

Nick offers to drive him home that evening, and he agrees, the memory of him jacking off to Luc still fresh in his mind. A little separation will do them good. Luc looks mildly disappointed in the news, but he gives a quick little friendly hug to Brandon, smelling like cologne and musk. “I’ll see you after the road trip,” he says, voice low in Brandon’s ear.

“Absolutely,” Brandon says, ignoring his hammering heart at the promise, hoping Luc can’t somehow feel it.

~~~~~

Brandon forgot just how fucking boring road trips are when you’re not with the team.

From the looks of it, though, it’s going to be a brutal one with the way the team is playing. He lounges on the couch, lights dimmed low, watching the Jackets slog through an ugly game against the Hurricanes. It’s boring even to _him,_ and that’s a bad sign.

He ends up texting a few guys in his ennui, with Scotty Hartnell sending a few more filthy texts until the Preds take the ice, and then he flicks down his phone to try and find something else to do.

Brandon Saad’s name scrolls past, and Brandon suddenly remembers their conversation. _Read what you wrote to me,_ he remembers Saader saying, so he clicks in to their conversation.

_hey’re wettest missed you inn columnist ihopes coca oss cool_

Wow. Brandon stares at the jumble of words for a long minute, trying to decipher them. How high was he?

After a long couple of minutes watching the Jackets finish bumblefucking their way into a 2-1 loss against the Hurricanes, Brandon thinks he vaguely remembers what he was trying to say.

_hey we miss you in cbus i hope chicago is cool,_ he texts over to Saad.

The response comes fairly quickly, because the Hawks have the night off. _Hey bud...thanks? What brought that on?_

_check the text. its what i was trying to say when i was high. i think._

Saader [sends a gif that makes his brain hurt to look at](https://78.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m98xolleUN1rbwhpyo1_500.gif), and then a [quick clip of Goon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekwnp5L8shM). Brandon watches it even though he’s seen the movie about ten times, the actor with the terrible Canadian accent barking out, “Two rules, man. Stay away from my fuckin’ Percocets, and do you have any fuckin’ Percocets?”

_vics not percs,_ he sends back to Saader.

_Oof. Sucks._

It does suck, because Percs are a little stronger than Vicodin. His headache is ramping up now, staring at the tiny bright-lit screen, and he wishes for not the first time that hockey players weren’t such dipshits at getting addicted to painkillers so he could have something worthwhile and not suffer. So he taps back, _tell me bout it gtta go head hurts_

_If u ever wanna talk,_ the reply comes, _just give me a yell._

Brandon considers chirping Saader about the offer, how he’s a millennial who wouldn’t know how to hold a real phone conversation if someone paid him, but instead he falls asleep on the couch to the sounds of the post-game talking about why the Jackets were so lackluster that evening.

~~~~~

Luc’s Christmas present shows up two days later, couriered in while the Jackets are getting beat in Boston.

He completely forgot about even ordering the gift, purchased back when they were still dating, when the season was new. It’s a beautiful Montblanc watch, and Brandon turns the timepiece over in his hands, running his fingers along the fine craftsmanship and the leather band embossed with _PLD._ Of course, he had to get it personalized, so it’s non-returnable.

A watch was sort of a no-brainer as a gift. Every NHL player seems to wear one, and it’s not to tell time. It’s the mark of an athlete, a sort of victory proclamation that _I made the bigs, I’m here to stay,_ the confidence in your ability to drop thousands of dollars on an item that’s basically all for show. Brandon remembers his rookie year, the game of peacocking that went on with watches, his stress at having the ‘right’ kind and being seen as successful. Nobody’s chirped Luc about his cheap Rolex yet, but…

The Montblanc _is_ beautiful. It’s a sort of vintage-hipster style that is completely out of suit for Brandon but will look amazing on Luc, the leather band a gorgeous caramel color, and he remembers how much he paid for it and tries not to cringe.

“What the fuck do I do with you,” he mutters at the watch, as if the jewelry will talk back to him. He can’t return it, and he can’t regift it with the _PLD_ initials. Maybe he can get a new band for it?

Or maybe he should just give it to Luc, as he originally planned. Would PL get the wrong impression from the gift? Except Luc is a friend now, and friends exchange Christmas presents all the time. Right?

Brandon wishes, not for the first time, that he could talk to somebody about this. Nobody on the team is a good candidate, not with being so close to both him and Luc. He thinks about the relationship advice that either Johansen or Hartnell would give and quickly discards that possibility as well. Boyle - well, _maybe,_ but he’s got enough shit on his plate with the whole cancer thing and the Devils are currently on the ice besides. He mentally goes down his list of buddies: Zuccarello, Del Zotto, Wisniewski...

_If u ever wanna talk, just give me a yell._

He’s dialing before he can think too hard about it. “Alright,” Brandon Saad answers, sounding smirky, “Did someone actually kidnap you this time?”

“Saader, I think I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Well.” There’s a dead pause on the line, and then a short laugh. “Pretty sure you could get most of the league to agree with you there, so I’m not sure why you picked _me_ for that confirmation.”

“Mmm.” Brandon squeezes his eyes shut, already reconsidering this phone call as a bad idea. “So, uh...how much do you know, about...what happened?”

“You mean the…?”

“The gay thing, yes. Don’t sugar coat me. Just tell me what you’ve heard.”

“Oh.” Saad gets his serious tone of voice on for this. “Just that you got found with a teammate, right? Various rumors about _which_ teammate. Someone young, supposedly. You know, I’ve heard it was Sonny - “

_“Ew.”_

“Right, I didn’t believe that, because god knows you could do better than Sonny.”

Brandon’s not quite sure how to take the proclamation that he could ‘do better than Sonny’ (although he absolutely _could,_ thanks very much) so he just stays silent until Saader keeps talking. “That new rookie. Dubois. That’s the kid, isn’t it?”

“Please don’t call him _kid,”_ Brandon says, and Saader makes a gently chastised noise on the phone. “But yeah. That’s the one.”

“Well speak of the devil,” Saader says, and Brandon glances up at the game; just one minute into the start of the third period, and Luc is getting his first fighting major, tussling with fellow rookie Charlie McAvoy on the Bruins. Neither of them win cleanly, although McAvoy probably does a little better in the scrap - he ends up on top of the dogpile, anyway - and then they’re off to the box as both benches cheer. Brandon watches Luc and McAvoy chat in the box, and Charlie actually grins what looks to be a genuine smile. Leave it to Luc to be one of those guys that can immediately laugh about a scrap and be calm in the penalty box. Not Brandon; once he ramps up to a ten, it’s hard to yank him down off that ledge. None of what he says to the other guy in the box would be fit for television, and it for sure wouldn’t draw a smile. “I can see the appeal,” Saader says, and Brandon snorts.

“Oh, are you one of those straight boys that isn’t afraid to admit that a fellow dude is decent looking?”

There’s another dead space on the phone, a pregnant pause, and then Saader says, “None of us should be ‘afraid to admit’ _anything_ , Dubi.”

“Yeah, well. You see how well it worked out for me. Anyway, I guess I...wanted some advice, and I wanted someone with some space from the situation. Like, not a teammate.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“When we were dating, I bought Luc - uh, Dubois, I bought him a watch. It’s a pretty nice watch. I can’t return it. You think I should still give it to him? We’re just friends now.”

“Snapchat me a pic of the watch?”

Brandon snorts. “You think I have Snapchat?”

“Everyone has Snapchat, Dubi.”

“Not everyone.” He pulls the phone away from his ear, half-listens to the chirping from the phone about him being old while he photographs the watch and texts it over.

There’s a little whistle. “Shit, that’s a nice fucking watch. How much that run you, five grand at least? Aw, and you got it _personalized._ That was gonna be my first suggestion, return it, but you can’t. Dubi, this is definitely a gift you give someone you’re close to. Like...this is a best friend gift. Or a boyfriend gift. Not really a casual buddies gift.”

“I know, I know.”

“Like...does he still love you?”

“Uh…”

Saader definitely picks up on the lack of answer. “Do you still love _him?”_

“No!” Brandon perhaps protests just a little too heartily, because he can hear Saader suck in a breath.

“Lemme guess, you can’t be together, right? Cause the whole...coworker...teammate thing. Fuck, I can’t even imagine. Like if the Hawks said Alyssa and I couldn’t be together, I don’t know what I’d do. But I do know you should _not_ give that watch to him, man. Do literally anything else with it. Don’t give it to him.”

“You don’t think I can stay professional?” There’s a little challenge in Brandon’s voice now; he can hear it, and he can recognize how shitty it is, but he’s powerless to stop from lashing out at being given the answer he knows is probably correct but not the one he wanted to hear.

“I think - Jesus, Dubi - “ Saader sighs. “This isn’t a knock on you, but yeah, I think it’ll be hard to stay professional when you’re still in love with the guy, and vice versa, _and_ you don’t have any other prospects. It’s not like you’re gonna go to the local gay bar and pick up a nice insurance broker as a rebound dude, right?”

The Jackets game has taken a turn for the worse, from being down 3-0 to now losing 6-1, and Brandon can feel his headache coming back, and frustration starting to boil. Saader doesn’t deserve to be yelled at, so Brandon takes a deep calming breath. “You’re probably right. I appreciate the advice, but I. I gotta go now.”

“Dubi.” Saader sounds serious, earnest. “Look, I know you can’t talk to anyone on the Jackets about this shit? But you can talk to me. Really. Anytime, okay?”

Brandon thinks about Saader and his long-term girlfriend, and wonders what sort of advice he thinks he’s qualified to dole out about _this_ shit, but forces a smile. “Thanks. Later, Saader.”

“Bye, Dubi. Don’t give him that watch.”

Brandon hangs up without another word and stares at his phone for a long minute.

He’s pretty sure he’s gonna give Luc that watch.


	26. Chapter 26

Brandon wakes up the next morning to the smell of bacon and the sound of the blender. He’s tired and his head hurts, but the knowledge that it’s probably Luc is enough to propel him out of bed and towards his kitchen. “B!” Luc chirps in delight as he catches sight of Brandon in the doorway.

“Hey,” Brandon says, scratching a hand through his mussed hair and offering a sleepy smile. Luc’s presence is unexpected with how late the Jackets got back into town, but a small part of Brandon somehow knew that Luc would make an appearance, so he’s not shocked. “You making breakfast?”

“Uh huh. How’re you feeling?” Luc sets down the bacon-grease splattered spatula; Brandon notes he’s using the _metal_ spatula in his no-stick skillet, but before he can protest, Luc’s got him swept up in a tight hug. “Missed you,” he says, and Brandon thinks he might feel the gentlest brush of lips on his temple, the softest kiss. He pretends like he doesn’t feel it, because that’s something they can’t do, something that would require another Talk, so instead he just enjoys the warm feelings permeating through at the closeness.

“You weren’t gone _that_ long,” Brandon jokes, reluctantly untangling out of Luc’s embrace. “I feel okay. Not dead yet. Just eager to get surgery done.”

“How’s the vision?”

“Better. Good enough I’m going to come in for video today.” It’s been tough even watching a screen sometimes; his vision has gone blurry, or dark, or there’s been weird shapes floating through the room, and it’s honestly fucking terrifying. But his doctors insist it’s temporary, and it’s been a few days since he’s had any problems, so maybe they’re right.

Luc makes a pleased noise and picks up the spatula again, and Brandon has to grab his wrist before he pokes it back into the skillet. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you that metal and nonstick don’t go together?”

“Huh?”

Sighing, Brandon gently extracts the spatula from Luc’s grip and replaces it with a similar tool, this one made out of plastic. “Be careful of metal spatulas in pans. You’ll scratch it right up.”

“Sorry.” Luc grins his goofy-shy smile at him, and Brandon can’t be mad, doesn’t even try to be.

His appetite is returning, and he manages to drink his entire protein shake and tuck away some bacon and eggs. Luc makes an enthusiastic groan at the bacon; the Jackets seem to think that turkey bacon is healthier, and so real bacon isn’t ever available at team breakfasts. Luc probably follows the nutritionist’s advice and sticks to turkey bacon at home, too. Brandon’s too old for that shit. Pork or nothing, he figures.

“I forgot how good this was,” Luc says, and moans again in pleasure at the bite of bacon, and Brandon has to try hard not to think of other ways he’s made Luc groan like that.

They head to the rink, and Brandon sits in the video session with the forwards, next to Luc, although he has to leave fifteen minutes before it’s over because his headache is back. He ends up checking in with the medics, getting a massage while everyone’s on the ice - why the hell not - and then signs autographs on charity auction items until his hand goes numb. Then it’s lunch with the boys, and the afternoon free with Luc. They end up snuggling on the couch while watching a movie, and Luc slowly slides his hand under Brandon’s shirt, soothingly pets his bare back. He doesn’t make any move to go further, though, so Brandon figures it’s okay.

If every day is like this, Brandon thinks, it might be the best injury recovery period he’s ever had.

The Jackets play at home the next day against Toronto, and Brandon encourages Luc to go and hang out with some of the younger guys while he has lunch with Cam. They can’t be _too_ obvious about their new friendship; even though nothing is really happening, Brandon is aware the optics are not great. Still, Luc swings by a few hours before gametime, in his suit, to see if Brandon wants a ride to the rink.

Brandon squints in the mirror; his double-vision is back, and it’s making it awful hard to button his shirt up. “Don’t you have to head to the airport right after your game? I figured I’d just take an Uber.” He’s still not advised to drive. What a pain in the ass. Although, with how he’s seeing two of his scowling visage in the mirror instead of one, maybe it’s not the best idea in the world anyway.

“Ride with me there, and take an Uber back. It’ll be nice,” Luc says, and suddenly he’s crowded into Brandon’s space, taking over the buttoning. His fingers brush Brandon’s bare chest as he buttons, and Brandon feels like he can barely breathe; Luc is tantalizingly close. He smells so good, just the right amount of cologne that Brandon really likes, and his tongue is sticking out of his mouth as he concentrates, starting on Brandon’s tie after his shirt is buttoned. Brandon wants to suck Luc’s tongue right into his mouth, undo all the work that’s just been done by taking off his tie and shirt and then doing the same to Luc’s.

But he doesn’t do any of that, only offers a weak smile when Luc finishes dressing him and steps back with a flourish. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

It’s a good game against Toronto, as good as a game can be when you’re watching from the press box at least. The Jackets win, and Luc scores, and Brandon can’t fucking wait to get back out there.

~~~~~

Brandon’s only half-listening to the Jackets pre-game show as he makes dinner. He’s feeling especially mopey tonight, being home alone and injured, so he’s making one of his favorite comfort foods, pancakes. Nevermind that it’s almost 7:30p, and nevermind that pancakes - especially with the amount of butter and syrup he’s planning to use - are definitely off the approved nutrition list. One night won’t kill him.

The pre-game show is rambling about Wenny, how he has a point streak going, and hopes to continue it tonight. Brandon knows that Brian Elliott has been real shaky in net for the Flyers, so maybe he will. Maybe Luc will get another goal; that would be nice.

He glances over at the game, playing on his iPad, as the announcers mention Sidney Crosby. Really, Crosby gets talked about even in a Jackets / Flyers matchup? No wonder everyone’s sick of him.

“Oh _fuck,”_ he mutters, as the skyline of Pittsburgh is suddenly shown, and he yanks out his phone to check the schedule. The Jackets do play Philadelphia...in two days, at their next game. Tonight is the Penguins.

“Shit,” he mutters again. He’d been meaning to warn Luc about this game, to not talk to Crosby about the whole gay thing. Brandon’s not supposed to have told anyone his secret, and now both Luc and Cam know. Cam’s smart enough to not say anything, but Luc…

He taps out a quick text message. _dont say shit to crosby_ , it reads. They’re still in the locker room for pregame, and Luc likes to listen to music on his phone; he should get the message.

Sure enough, his phone buzzes after a minute. _Uh. A little too late. Sorry._

Warm ups - oh fuck - warm ups are already done and if Luc was going to talk to Sid at all it would be then. _what did u tell him!_ he sends, but now he can see them lining up in the hallway, ready to go out for the start of the game.

Luc takes the opening faceoff against Sid, because of course he does. They don’t say anything to each other, and Crosby doesn’t look particularly irritated or rattled, but he’s a weird robot so that doesn’t mean much. The announcers _do_ talk about how Luc idolized Crosby growing up, how he had Crosby’s autograph and posters and just... _yuck._

The first period is uneventful, and Brandon waits for a text back between periods while he eats his pancakes, but it never comes. He pushes back a flare of irritation; Torts isn’t a fan of phones during the game, and Luc’s a good little rookie, but it’s driving him crazy, not to know what happened.

Luc scores in the second to make it 1-0, which makes him feel a _little_ bit better, although the anxiety is still high. He makes two more pancakes and shovels them in his mouth with what seems like half the butter in his fridge as the game turns chippy, Fliggy fighting Malkin, Boone getting a bullshit game misconduct, and Jonesy tussling with...Crosby?

Crosby rarely tries to fight, and it’s a good indication of his mental state. Sid’s _pissed_ about something, and Brandon can venture a guess that it’s not all about the game. He curses around his last bite of pancakes.

There’s still no text back in the second intermission, and then in the third the Pens come back, force overtime, and win it. Because of course they do, how can the universe make this even worse for Brandon?

_ur killin me_ , he texts Luc. _tell me what happened_

_It wasnt a big deal,_ Luc replies, and whatever, Brandon figures that he will be the judge of that. _Probably easier to chat live tho? We’re heading back to Cbus tonight. I can call on my drive home but it’ll be late._

_call, dont worry about late,_ Brandon sends, and ponders whether he wants to take a nap or stay awake to wait for it.

He ends up dozing on the couch - he hadn’t meant to, but he fell asleep while watching the first period of Blackhawks / Stars - but jolts awake when the call comes through, ringing shrilly next to his ear. The Hawks game is still on television, which confuses him; the Jackets plane shouldn’t touch down until probably 1a at the earliest, and this game should be long finished by then.

A quick glance at the caller ID removes his confusion. It’s not Luc.

It’s _Sidney Crosby._

“Ah shit,” he mumbles, staring at the name while the phone continues to ring. Does he answer it? Ignore it?

It’s already on the sixth ring, probably ready to go to voicemail, when he finally swipes his thumb to answer. “...hello?” There’s - it’s not quite silence, it sounds like Sid has called him from his vehicle with the road noise, but he’s not talking, so Brandon tries again. “Hello?”

“It’s Sid,” he finally says. He sounds calm, but Brandon’s known him long enough that he can hear the simmering anger in his clipped tone.

“Yeah, I...I figured that one out, Crosby.”

“Then you probably also figured out why I’m calling you.”

“I have an _idea,”_ Brandon says, but Sid is silent, so after a long awkward moment, he continues. “I mean. Look. I’m sorry. Luc’s safe, though. He won’t tell your secret, I can promise you that. It’s not like I’m telling my whole team about you or nothing, just - “

“Wait,” Sid cuts him off, sounding confused. “What? Oh, you think I’m pissed that you told Dubois I’m gay? Don’t get me wrong, Dubinsky, I am _not_ fucking happy about that, but you’re right. He’s safe.”

“So, uh...what are you pissed about?”

“Are you fucking serious? Did you, or did you not, ‘date’ him?” The way Crosby says _date_ makes it very clear his opinion on their tryst. “Is that why they stripped you of the alternate?”

Brandon scoffs. “Are you just hearing about this _now?_ This is like, old news. Pretty sure the whole fucking league knows at this point.”

“I don’t listen to league gossip.”

Yeah, that sounds about right. “Too afraid of what you’ll hear about yourself, Crosby?”

Sid blows out a harsh breath that Brandon can hear over the phone, and _now_ he’s pissed. “You’re a real asshole, you know that? This is the dumbest, stupidest, _shittiest_ thing you could do to this kid,” Sid seethes. “To take advantage of him like this. And then leading him on, making it seem like you’ll get back together - “

“I never did that!” Brandon yelps, and now _he’s_ starting to get angry too. “Fuckin’ bullshit, what do you know? You don’t know shit!”

“Oh, so that’s why Dubois approached me in warmups and tried to convince me that we should all come out, and then you two can be together again? Huh? Because us being out will...magically make it appropriate to date your coworker? Even outside of athletics, most companies have rules in place where you can’t date coworkers, Dubinsky! They’re there for a reason!”

Goddamnit, Luc.

“You don’t understand, Crosby.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I _don’t_ understand taking advantage of my young teammates.”

Brandon snorts. “Well if Luc looked like that Guentzel kid, we wouldn’t be having this discussion, sooooo…”

_“Dubinsky,”_ Sid growls, and there’s a very dangerous edge to his voice. “Do you realize when you were 18, getting drafted to the league, that Dubois was _six years old?_ Six!”

Brandon sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Well when you put it _that_ way…”

“Yeah, it doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“It wasn’t my best idea, but...can you blame me, Crosby? Can you even pretend that if you had a guy join your team and you somehow found out he was gay and into you, and you were into him, that you _wouldn’t_ jump on that shit, regardless of age?”

“Dubinsky - “

“No, you shut the fuck up and listen to me. Don’t try and pretend you’re some hockey robot that doesn’t need or want anyone in his life. You’re _lonely._ You see teammates with their wives, and their kids, and you think to yourself man wouldn’t that fucking be nice. Wouldn’t it fucking be nice to have someone with you on family skate day, to buy your kid their first tiny pair of skates. Wouldn’t it be nice to come home to someone when you have a shit game and not be alone? But you can’t. And it sucks, you know it sucks, so you just try and ignore it all because what else can you do?”

There’s a long moment of silence, then: “Brandon, are you talking about me, or you?”

_Shit._ Brandon closes his eyes, a headache threatening to burst through. “Fuck you, Crosby. You understand this, so don’t sit there on your high horse and say you wouldn’t have done the same goddamn thing. I know I can’t be together with him, _I know,_ and despite what Luc told you, he knows it too. We’re just friends now. But...it was fucking nice while it lasted, yanno?”

Sid sighs, and when he speaks next the anger is dissolved, replaced by something a little softer. “I know,” he says softly. “We make sacrifices to play this game. Everybody does. Everybody in the NHL has given up _something_ to be here. For us, that’s our love life. It’s just the way it is. How, uh...how are teams treating you now? If this is league gossip?”

“There’s good nights. There’s bad nights too. Mostly there’s just one or two assholes on almost every team that makes it a thing.”

Sid makes a noise which indicates that answer doesn’t terribly surprise him. “Are you coming to Pittsburgh next game? About a week from now. I invited Luc to meet before the game, have a chat.”

“Sidney Crosby disrupting his pre-game rituals? Holy shit. I’m not going to have a threesome with you and Luc, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, and laughs humorlessly at Crosby’s put-off sigh. “No, I have surgery that day. I won’t be there.”

“I just want to talk with him. See how he’s taking it, the whole outing thing, his first season in the league. Maybe give him a little advice, get to know him better.”

“That better not be a euphemism for sucking his dick, Crosby.”

“He’s way too young for me,” Sid says, and Brandon knows Sid’s younger than him, and that it’s another subtle jab in his direction. He lets it go.

The conversation sort of dies after that, sticking around for an awkward moment before they can get off the phone. “Take care of each other,” Sid tells him before he hangs up.

Brandon definitely wants to do that. Just probably not the way Crosby meant.

~~~~~

He stays up for Luc’s call, too amped from his discussion with Crosby to sleep. He sounds tired when he calls; sleeping on the plane is never really fully relaxing, even if the seats do go mostly-flat on the charter flight. “I’m not waking you, am I?” he asks.

“I’m awake,” Brandon says. “Crosby called me.”

“Oh.”

“He’s not going to come out, you know. And...we’re not getting back together. We already talked about this.”

Luc makes a little distressed huff. “Not like things are now. I just figure maybe - if, if we _normalize_ this - “

“Luc - “

“It was just a thought, B. I guess a dumb one. Sorry. Crosby wants to meet with me before we play next, you know. Dunno why.”

“He just wants to talk. Look, we’re not together, so I can’t tell you what to do, but you should probably _not_ try to fuck him.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Luc says, in a way that makes Brandon think that it has absolutely crossed his mind.

“Did the Pens give you any shit?” Brandon doesn’t expound further, because he knows Luc gets it. Did the Pens make the gay thing a big deal?

“They were chippy assholes, but I didn’t get singled out or slurred at or anything.”

Of course, Crosby’s team wouldn’t. They _have_ to know Sid’s gay, right? Malkin’s not that fucking dumb...probably. What a fucking world they live in, Brandon muses, that the _Pittsburgh Penguins_ will be one of the nicer teams to play in the scheme of things.

“Go home and get some sleep, Luc. I’ll see you at the rink tomorrow,” Brandon says.

“You don’t want a ride?”

“Nah, I got one.” He’s already forcing himself to text Nick for a ride, get a little more separation from Luc before they do something they regret.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow, B.”

“Sure will,” Brandon says, hanging up with a sigh. He’s in that weird exhausted but not sleepy state that he hates, and he gets the feeling that tomorrow is going to suck.

~~~~~

The next day does suck. Nick’s entirely too cheerful in the morning, and Brandon tries not to be an asshole. He’s not sure if he succeeds.

He makes plans with some other guys that aren’t Luc for lunch and dinner - still thinking space will do them both good - but they plan on hanging out after the home game the next day, against Philadelphia. Luc is leaving for home shortly after that, and Brandon still has to give him the gift.

The Flyers game goes poorly, when it comes down to it. The Jackets do win, and Luc takes his first shootout attempt and makes it with a beauty, but when Brandon heads back into the bowels of the arena, he notes Cam in the trainer’s room, looking grim. “It’s fucking fractured,” he tells Brandon, gesturing towards his right foot.

Brandon groans. “Does that mean I’m doing all of the Christmas cooking?” Even though he’s still convinced that Cam and Nick believe that Brandon needs some sort of holiday babysitter to cheer him up, and he fucking hates that notion, he’s decided to take Cam up on his offer to spend the holidays with him. His wife won’t even be in town; Natalie is heading off on one last girl’s trip before she gets too pregnant to do anything.

Cam offers a thin smile, and Brandon knows that’s a _yes._

“What in the fuck is going _on_ around here?” Torts asks rhetorically as he breezes into the room, all snarls and irritation. Cam and Brandon aren’t the only ones injured: Zach and Murrs are both day-to-day, and Wenny’s probably going on IR with back issues. Brandon takes the opportunity to flee the room, miming _I’ll call you_ to Cam.

Luc drives them back to Brandon’s place after the game, and as they’re sitting at a red light, Luc slides his hand off the steering wheel and into Brandon’s while they wait. Brandon’s pondering whether it’s appropriate - they _do_ cuddle, but this seems a little different - when Luc speaks up. “I think I’m going to come out to my family at Christmas,” he says, quietly.

“You sure?” Brandon squeezes his hand, and the light turns green, but Luc doesn’t pull back, keeps driving with one hand.

“There’s not a question in my mind that they’ll be supportive. Just...if somehow this all does get out to the public, I want them to know about it first. I want them to hear it from me. It doesn’t seem right that the team knows and my parents don’t, you know? What about you? You thinking of coming out?”

“I...I uh...I dunno.”

Luc frowns, glances over. “You don’t think they’d have a problem with it, do you?”

“I dunno,” Brandon says again, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think so, but I just...I’m not as confident as you. Besides, I’m not going home. I don’t want to come out to them over the phone.” It’s a cop out, but it at least rings true. It seems wrong to do it long-distance. If they’re going to react poorly, it would be easier to shun him when he’s a voice on the phone instead of live.

“Right, I get it. In person’s the way to go.” Luc smiles over at him, finally letting his hand go.

They’re both quiet until they get up to Brandon’s condo. Luc looks tired, and Brandon knows he has an early flight, so he gets right to it. “I got a present for you.”

“Really? For me? You didn’t have to.”

“Wanted to. Close your eyes, I didn’t wrap it.” He retrieves the watch box while Luc dutifully keeps his eyes shut. “Hold out your hand,” he says, and drops the gift into Luc’s palm, where he touches and caresses the sharp angles, trying to gauge what it is.

“Feels like a box.”

“Genius,” Brandon teases. “Open your eyes.”

Luc cracks them open, and then his eyes go wide at the box, classy black with a little silver imprint of the Montblanc symbol in the corner. He opens the box up and his eyes go somehow even wider. “Oh, holy shit. Brandon. This is...wow.”

“Try it on.” Brandon takes ahold of the box so Luc can lift the watch out, take off his old watch and shove it in his pocket, and secure the Montblanc around his wrist. He gently caresses the band, fingers pausing above the embossed _PLD._

“It’s beautiful,” he says, sounding awed. “Jesus, Brandon, this must have cost - “

“Don’t worry about the cost. Do you like it?”

Luc finally pulls his gaze away from the watch, meeting Brandon’s eyes, and his expression is dopey-soft, big doe eyes and affectionate grin. “I love it. It’s amazing. Thank you.”

Brandon’s just about to respond when Luc steps up and into his arms, bumping their foreheads together like he’s a cat while they embrace. He feels warm, and safe, and Brandon’s not sure what he expected Luc’s reaction to be when he received the gift but this is exactly what he wanted. After a long moment of holding each other, Luc’s laugh bubbles up. “I was just gonna replace your pan I ruined, and then you lay _this_ down. Now I gotta think of something good for you.”

“Oh, pans are surprisingly expensive, you’ll see. But if you really wanna get me something…” Brandon pulls back, thinks for a moment. “A foot rub. Not right now - something I can cash in when I’ve had a real shitty game and need to relax.”

“That’s really what you want?”

“Uh huh.” Brandon certainly doesn’t want Luc to feel obligated to lay down the amount of cash the Montblanc cost. Besides, he wasn’t kidding; that pan was at least a couple hundred bucks. Not five grand by any stretch, but Luc isn’t the one making almost six mill a year.

They end up on the couch, Brandon nestled in the ‘V’ of Luc’s spread legs, head on his lap, while PL scritches a hand through his scalp and hair. “Maybe add a scalp massage to that foot massage, _Jesus_ this is good,” Brandon moans.

“You like?”

“Uh huh.”

“I always like making you feel good,” Luc says, and he grins down at Brandon, whose stomach does a little flip-flop at that statement.

“I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” Brandon admits, and reaches over to grab Luc’s free hand, hold it over his chest. He doesn’t really _mean_ to put it over his heart, but it ends up there. “Merry Christmas, Luc.”

“Joyeux Noël, B.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Enjoy](http://murrayryan.tumblr.com/post/180191272711/flowdaddymoyse-nobody-asked-but-hes-too-cute-i?fbclid=IwAR15E_-E97uDOmY53f5odbRjLSzTUoTvvdzZ8PH9rIi6N9cJF5AaJUDnTUE) this super cute PL interview with Dubi teaching him faceoffs around the 2:00 mark.

Luc isn’t supposed to stay the night - his flight home is early - but he and Brandon end up passing out on the couch under a blanket, curled around each other. Halfway through the night Brandon wakes up enough to rouse Luc and sleepily shuffle to the bedroom together, and Luc manages to set a disgustingly early alarm to head back to Savy’s place so he can grab his bags and head to the airport.

The next thing he knows, Luc is hovering over him, gently calling his name. “B. B? Brandon,” he whispers, and Brandon cracks open his eyes to see Luc dressed and ready to go. He hadn’t even heard Luc’s alarm go off; it’s still pitch black outside.

“Mmm. Luc?”

“Hi, sleepy,” he laughs softly. “I gotta go. But I wanted to say goodbye first.”

“Good luck with your family,” Brandon murmurs, voice still rough from sleep, and holds his arms open for a hug. Luc slides close without hesitation; he’s wearing that cologne that Brandon really likes. “You smell good,” he says, because apparently the filter on his brain doesn’t work when he’s half asleep.

_“You_ smell good,” Luc returns, even though that’s probably objectively not true. Then - because Brandon is apparently not the only one without proper judgement in the morning - he kisses Brandon’s jaw, right where the beard ends, almost on his neck. And then he’s gone, leaving Brandon to touch his face and wonder if that truly did happen or if he was just imagining it.

He slides into sleep again fairly quickly, but it’s the first thing on his mind when his alarm blares at a somewhat more normal time, the memory of Luc’s mouth on his skin. He thinks about the _look_ Luc gave him last night after he got the watch, the obvious aching fondness, and he remembers the way they fell asleep together, his head pillowed on Luc’s chest, with Luc’s big arms curled around him protectively.

“Shit shit _shit,”_ he groans, because sometimes it’s so hard to just stay friends when all he wants to do is hear those noises Luc makes when he’s coming, and then cuddle and stay in bed for hours talking and laughing, and if he’s not very careful he’s gonna fuck this whole thing up.

He shouldn’t do it, he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s hard and Luc is the only thing on his mind, so he thinks about PL while he gets off. Brandon pictures Luc peeling off the covers and settling on top of him, a heavy weight as he grinds down. “Can I fuck you?” he asks, in that husky French twang he gets when he’s super turned on, and then his brain fast forwards past the foreplay to the good stuff. Luc’s supporting his leg in the air while he thrusts; Brandon’s legs fall open as he thinks about it, the noises Luc makes, these little wrecked whimpers that almost sound like he’s in pain if you didn’t know better, and then he’s bucking into his hand and coming, trying to keep it from dribbling on the sheets.

He should really get laid, although that’s not in the cards for the next god knows how many weeks until he can get on a road trip to a city big enough to be anonymous. Even then… “Fuckin’ pussy,” he mutters, directed towards himself. Picking up anywhere is a big risk, and he’s almost always too afraid to do it.

Brandon showers and feeds himself, and scrolls through his messages about the party tonight. The Jackets have an official holiday party - the ugly sweater one, which is talked about in the media - and then there’s the _other_ holiday party for anyone who can and wants to attend. It’s always the first night of holiday break, and appears nowhere on social media.

Mostly because the random drug tests are suspended during the holidays, so it’s a perfect time to get fucking _blitzed._

_hey u need me to bring anything 2nite?_ he texts Josh Anderson.

_U got any LSD?????_ comes the return message a few minutes later.

_who tf is taking lsd_

_I wanna see if itll give Z a personality,_ Josh writes, and Brandon has to admit it would be fucking hilarious to see Zach on LSD. Unfortunately, he has none and doesn’t know where the hell to find it. Old age has mellowed him significantly; nowadays he might have a bit of weed, but as a young man cocaine went up his nose at a rate that he finds shocking, looking back on it. Then again, cocaine was as easy to get as pizza in New York City, with a generous helping of easy anonymous sex. Sometimes he misses New York.

_no lsd,_ he writes back to Josh, _but u shuld totally find some._

As it turns out, Josh procures something _almost_ as good; when Brandon gets to Josh’s place that evening, Zach is sitting on the couch, pupils blown wide, staring at nothing. “Holy fuck Andy, you find some?” he asks with a laugh.

“Mushrooms,” Josh tells him gleefully. “He’s like, tasting colors right now.”

“And yet he’s still white-boy vanilla as fuck, although he has been randomly giggling, which is kind of fun,” Seth Jones says, wandering over with a joint in his mouth. “But if you ask me, he’s a dipshit. His parents are coming into town tomorrow! You don’t just take a drug you’ve never had the day before your _parents_ visit. Idiot.”

Josh excuses himself to go get high with Matt Calvert, and...oh fuck, Brandon forgot he was gonna be here. This is a significantly smaller party than their ugly sweater one, with a lot of guys out of town, and some other guys - Nicky, Bob - not really wanting to come to a gathering where the point is explicitly to take illegal drugs. He won’t be able to avoid Calvert forever here, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

Seth interrupts his brooding. “You want a joint? You’re off your painkillers, right?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Brandon says. “Yes to both.”

He ends up smoking on the couch with Seth, watching Korpisalo dancing to the stereo and getting handsy with everyone who walks past. Brandon recognizes _that_ drug anywhere. “Who gave Korpi ecstacy?”

Seth shrugs, tapping his joint off in an ashtray. “Not me. Gotta be careful with those goalies, the way I see it. Although...with the way he’s trying to grope people, maybe there’s something he ain’t telling us.”

“I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t fucking come out, after seeing the shit Luc and I go through.”

Seth purses his lips, looking thoughtful. “I understand why management isn’t happy about it,” he finally says, “But I think it’s bullshit that you can’t be together, and I want to let you know the crew has your back. Always.” _The crew_ is the younger guys that generally hang out together: Seth, Z, Andy, Boone, Ryan, a few others.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, thanks. It’s not you guys I’m worried about.”

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed there’s some shitty behavior in the room. I mean, you just say the word and they have to get new tires.” It’s a joke, but it makes Brandon feel worse.

“I didn’t want to be the one to divide the locker room,” he mutters. “We’re supposed to be a team.”

Seth scowls. _“You_ didn’t do anything. It’s their own actions and attitudes that are the problem. You ain’t responsible for shit.”

Brandon takes another inhale; the first joint is almost gone by this point. “You’re awfully eloquent for a guy that’s stoned,” he jokes, because he’s not sure what else to say. Seth’s support has hit him somewhere raw, and he doesn’t want to tear up in the middle of the party, although worse things have happened when guys are high.

“Well.” Seth pauses, offers a thin smile and lowers his voice. “I’m high enough to admit that in another lifetime - like if I wasn’t a hockey player - maybe I would have tried it.”

“Tried what?”

“You know. Like, being with a guy?”

Brandon stares at Seth, mouth tumbling open. “What do you mean like _try?_ Is...is that a thing you do? Just _try_ it?” Is Seth admitting he’s bi?

“Well like...I don’t know if I _would_ be into it. But I probably would have given it a whirl? Like at least made out with a guy at a bar. You know, try it. If I didn’t play hockey.”

Brandon’s always known he was gay, ever since he can remember figuring out how to jerk off, so the idea that some people just aren’t _sure_ is blowing his mind, especially as the weed settles in his brain. “That - whoa. That’s crazy, Jonesy.”

“That’s not me hitting on you. For the record.” Seth is smirking when he glances over. “Sorry to disappoint you. I wouldn’t really know my type in guys, but I do know you definitely _wouldn’t_ be it.”

Brandon flips him off, and they both dissolve into the giggles, the weed taking hold. “Well, I won’t tell anyone,” Brandon manages to finally say, still chuckling. “Your _maybe-possibly-in-another-lifetime-bisexual_ secret is safe with me.”

“Well, y’ask me, most people aren’t just plain straight or plain gay. There’s a lot of flexibility we ignore because society is fucked up.” Seth shrugs, peeling himself slowly off the couch. “I’m gonna...wait, what was I doing?” He blinks at the wall for a moment, then nods. “Oh! Munchies. Be right back,” he says, stumbling to the kitchen.

He ends up watching Korpi dance for a long moment, and then the couch dips next to him. Brandon opens his mouth to demand some snacks, wondering how in the world Seth snuck past without him seeing it, but - 

Matt Calvert is sitting there instead, nervously twisting at his sleeve. “Hey Dubi,” he says, quietly.

“Hi,” Brandon mutters after a moment, not sure what the hell is happening. Calvert still hasn’t made any overtly friendly overtones since he came out, although the icy chill has thawed into a silent agreement where they mostly ignore each other; Brandon doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it too often. It still hurts like hell.

“I wanted to talk.”

Calvert wants to talk _now?_ Brandon glances over incredulously, notices the white specks under Matt’s nose. “Oh, needed some nose beers before you could talk with me, huh?”

“I didn’t - that’s not - “ Matt wipes his nose, frowning. “I wanted to talk before I got fucked up.”

“Well you could have picked literally any other day then, but okay Calvy. Let’s hear it.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the couch; whatever Matt has to say to him, he can say it here.

“How’s the, uh…” Matt gestures to his eye, and Brandon resists the urge to roll it.

“Fine as can be expected. I have surgery in a few days.”

Matt nods, slowly. “Look, you know I haven’t been, uh...the most comfortable with you coming out. But like, the other day. I watched you fight Kassian, sticking up for your teammates just like you’ve done for years, and it sort of made me realize that it’s still _you_. You’re still the same Dubi I’ve known forever. Just with one extra thing about you.”

“Well of course I am,” Brandon snaps, and he sees Seth Jones come out of the kitchen with an armful of snacks, notice the pair of them on the couch, and immediately turn around and head in the opposite direction. Probably a smart idea. “What did you _expect?_ Like...like what else would I be?” The weed isn’t allowing him to be as eloquent as he wants, and he grunts in frustration, wishing he wasn’t high for this.

“I mean...in _theory_ , the gay thing is no big deal. But I don’t know any gay men besides you and Luc. And when you announced it, I felt betrayed. Like you were deceiving us...deceiving _me_ , like you were lying for years about this big important thing and I couldn’t figure out why. I was like, well why couldn’t he come out to me earlier? Is he hiding something?”

“You’ve seen _why,_ Calvy,” Brandon says. “Do you see the shit I go through every game? Do you?”

“I do,” Matt says, quietly, looking ashamed. “I understand now. I heard some of that shit Kassian was saying and it woke me the fuck up and made me realize it’s not all about _me_. Because part of me was kind of...god, this sounds egotistical...but worried about being naked around you. I know they always say gay men in the locker room aren’t a big deal because they’re not staring at you, but you...I mean, you were _with_ a teammate! So in my mind it was a scary thing.”

Brandon cringes. “I knew Luc was gay before I...before we got together. It’s not like I fucking _converted_ him. It doesn’t work like that. I don’t check out _anyone - “_

“I know, I know, I know,” Calvert rushes out. “I know. I get it now. You know me, Dubi, I’m a fucking dummy. I’ve just done a lot of soul-searching on this, and talking to my wife, and...anyway, I’m a jerk and I want to apologize and I hope things can go back the way they were. I miss our friendship. And I know it’s not gonna just _magically_ go back to normal. I have a lot to make up to you. I get that. I just want it to start now.”

The weed makes Brandon a lot more forgiving than he normally would be, even as he tries to hold onto his anger. “Maybe.”

“My wife convinced me there’s no way you’d be checking me out in the locker room anyway. Complete with some _very_ emasculating comments on my features, if you must know.”

Brandon can’t help it; he dissolves into laughter, laughing until tears prick his eyes and he feels nauseous, and Calvert’s laughing too. “You _are_ ugly,” he agrees, as his giggles die down. “Now get the fuck out of here while you’re still ahead. Coke turns you into a real twat, I’ve seen it.”

“Not as bad as Andy,” Calvert says, and well, he’s got a point there.

~~~~~

Brandon wakes up the next morning with his head and face hurting. Weed has started to give him an alcohol-like hangover in his old age. At least Uber is a thing nowadays; it means he’s able to get himself back home and sleep off the drugs in his own bed, rather than crashing on someone’s couch like he used to do. “Old fucking man,” he grumbles, hauling himself out of bed for some painkillers.

His phone is blown up with messages: Cam’s asking his plans for tonight _(it’s Christmas Eve! I have an extra bedroom, come sleep over!)_ ; Matt Calvert has texted him some platitudes _(awesome seeing you last night man)_ ; and there's a note from Luc _(miss you!!!! Check my private insta!!)._

Brandon has an Instagram account purely for looking at his teammates’ drunk and stupid photos, and he pulls up Luc’s private account as he sets his coffeemaker. In the latest photo, he’s grinning brightly with his family, arms around his parents. He’s wearing the watch, Brandon notes immediately.

_Tout s'est bien passé / everything went great!_

And then his sister commenting under: _acceptation et amour!_ Brandon’s not a French scholar but he’s pretty sure that means _acceptance and love_ so he figures Luc did it, he came out, and of course his family is thrilled about it.

He’s surprised at the amount of random young guys in the league that have commented on his photo.

_Ofc it did, you’re too fucking lovable,_ comes a note from Tyson Jost.

_YAYYYYYYYY,_ from Mitch Marner.

_What did I tell u!_ says Leon Draisaitl.

He thumbs through a few other comments, and there’s an odd spike of jealousy as he reads them. Luc seems to have an actual support system with guys his age throughout the league, not just Jackets. Brandon wouldn’t even know where the hell to start with that. He tries to imagine opening up to his buddies and ex-teammates about how difficult life has been since he’s come out and he can’t even fathom it. Emotional shit just isn’t something you discuss with coworkers, especially coworkers on rival teams. And yet...it seems to be working for Luc.

Maybe it would be different if he were 19, but he’s not. He tabs off the Instagram and messages Luc back. _proud of u,_ he says. _Even if u knew theyd be suportive its still a big deal. also, nice watch ;)_

Then he texts Cam sure, he’ll come over tonight, and finally coordinates a phone call with his parents and his brother for a little later. A brief thought flickers through his brain that if Luc can come out, he can stop being a pussy and come out as well, but a spike of cold fear runs down his spine as he tries to picture how the discussion would go, and he knows he’s not going to do it.

_Couldn’t have done it w/o your support!_ Luc messages back, and somehow it makes Brandon feel like even more of a wuss.

~~~~~

It’s a good call with his family until his brother starts talking about how he’s thinking of proposing to his girlfriend when he gets back from deployment, and the discussion inevitably turns to Brandon’s long-term bachelor status. “Well one of ya has to give me a grandson,” his Dad jokes, and _ugh_. They’re on Facetime, so Brandon tries to keep his expression neutral and not roll his eyes where his Dad can see it.

“Don’t be so hard on Brandon,” his brother - Bobby - laughs. “If I was in his place I’d probably still be livin’ it up too. All those chicks throwing themselves at him.”

“What, your adult league status doesn’t get all the ladies?” Brandon asks. Bobby plays hockey too, and he’s pretty decent, but it was apparent early on that he’d never be anything other than a really good beer leaguer. Brandon got all the hockey skills and Bobby apparently got all the balls in the family, he figures, because he’s off fighting a fucking _war_ and Brandon can’t even come out to his family.

His Mom smiles patiently. “Brandon, you’ll find the right person when you’re ready. I just know it.”

“Uh - yeah. Thanks,” he says, after a moment of surprised silence. It doesn’t pass his notice that his Mom said _person_ and not a female type pronoun. Does she know? Brandon always figured his family was clueless, but his Mom smiles softly and nods while his Dad and brother keep yammering about women.

Bobby will be home during the summer: “Right around the Cup finals,” he tells Brandon. “So I’ll have to come watch you play.”

“Could be our year,” Brandon says, although he’s not sure if he believes it; hell, just getting out of the first round would be nice.

“Hell yeah. And you’ve got a bachelor party to arrange anyway if I do propose. Obviously you’re my best man.”

“Obviously,” Brandon says, and his mind strays to a wedding date - maybe actually bringing someone he _likes_ rather than another beard - he pictures Luc in a suit, chin hooked on Brandon’s shoulder as they slow dance to some love song amongst all the other couples in the wedding party.

He’s gotta tell his parents and his brother that he’s gay. He’s _got_ to; the secret is slowly killing him.

But he opens his mouth and no words come out, stuck silent until his brother notices and starts making fun of him, so he snaps his jaw shut and laughs along with the teasing.

He will come out. He _will._

This summer, for sure.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out](https://twitter.com/FOXSportsOH/status/1059906998307680256?fbclid=IwAR0FEA5uIWiRsTh_mt1s3mYo9L5-XJBvL494wDrlgtB7b7ILQTa4UnGwFy8) this adorable video of PL playing with Savard's kids. Relevant for this chapter I think.

“Who the fuck doesn’t get this catered?” Brandon asks as he lazily whisks a pot, sending a huff over towards Cam. “Here I am, Christmas morning, I’m hungover because _someone_ decided to buy the good bourbon. And yet instead of being all snug in a fucking bed, I’m making a fucking glaze, for a fucking ham.”

“Hey, I’m hungover too,” Cam protests, sitting at the kitchen island with his foot in a boot, peeling potatoes at a rate that might get them eating next century.

“Hungover _and_ injured so my ass is the one doing all the cooking. You have money, short stuff. We all know that contract you just signed.”

Cam pouts, staring at the potatoes. “But I like cooking.”

“No, you like cooking with Natalie, because I bet she does most of the work while you giggle and check out her ass when she bends down to check the food. Here, I guess you can look at mine,” Brandon says, kneeling down to open up the oven and temp the ham. Not quite done yet.

Cam wolf-whistles, smiling. “Well, I’m gonna be doing a lot of the cooking soon. It’s kind of crazy, you know? The whole baby thing?” His smile slowly drops off into a little frown. “I just can’t stop thinking about - I mean, she’s with her family, right, but I get so nervous. Like something is gonna happen to her and the baby and I’m not there. You know?”

Brandon wanders over, glaze finished, to help peel potatoes. “I don’t, actually, but I can guess. She’ll be fine, Cammy.”

“I know, but still.” Cam tilts his head, thinking. “Wait. So you want kids. Would you like...adopt, then? Or how does that work?”

“I guess I’d prefer to pay a surrogate over adopting. I want my own kid, you know? Can’t let these genetics go to waste,” he says, and Cam throws a potato peel at him, rolling his eyes. “What? Aren’t you excited to see whether your kid might make it all the way to 5’6?”

“Excuse me I am five- _eight,_ thanks very much.”

Brandon tips his head back and laughs, a showy mocking thing. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“Psh.” Cam waves at him, and they peel potatoes in companionable silence for a moment before he speaks next. “So like...surrogate. Like after you retire? By yourself?”

There’s a hot flush of something - hopelessness? Indignity? Jealousy? - at Cam’s question. “Definitely after retirement. Ideally not by myself, but...if I have to, then…I dunno. Maybe.” _Single fatherhood_ sounds exhausting and not exceptionally appealing. But when he’s retired, what else does he have to do?

“Well you’re always welcome around here to help out and hold the baby,” Cam says, and then perhaps sensing Brandon’s growing agitation at this line of questioning, changes the subject to his new hockey academy that he’s in the process of opening. Brandon’s happy to chirp him about the stupidity of having a child _and_ starting a brand new business at the same time, so he rolls with it and tries to forget about his lack of romantic prospects. Because of course, on Christmas it’s fucking impossible to forget he doesn’t have a family, not like Nick, not like Cam will soon have.

They manage to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour, and the food tastes pretty decent as well, and they’re just finishing up Brandon’s favorite Christmas movie (Die Hard, and he will fight anyone who says it _isn’t_ a Christmas movie) when Cam nudges his side. “Okay, present time, am I right?”

“I didn’t get you anything,” Brandon says, even though both of them know that’s bullshit. Every year they each get each other something nice, a real gift: last year Brandon gave him a cold brew system, this year it’s a _really_ nice bottle of wine because Cam has decided that he should collect something hoity-toity now that he’s rich. They get that out of the way first. Brandon gets a Gucci belt (which he mocks, but he’s gonna wear the hell out of) and a couple of his favorite cigars from Cam.

Besides the ‘real’ gift, though, they always get each other a gag gift every year. Brandon thinks he might like this better than the nice gift, because it’s always over-the-top ridiculous and always hilarious. “What the fuck is this?” Cam asks, squinting at his gift as he unwraps it. “Is this a _onesie?”_

It is indeed a large, adult onesie with snaps on the bottom for a diaper, along with an identical baby-sized one. “Now you and your kid can be twins,” Brandon laughs.

“Why the fuck is this even a thing?” Cam asks, inspecting the snaps. “Like, is this for old people when they wear diapers?”

“What if I told you that some adults get off on dressing like babies?”

Cam yelps, dropping the onesie back in the bag. “This is fetish stuff? You’re joking!”

Brandon cracks up at Cam’s reaction. “Look it up,” he gasps, laughing.

“I think I _won’t,_ thanks.”

“You’re gonna wear that, Cam. I swear to God I don’t know what we need to bet, but come hell or high water I’m gonna get you into that thing and it’s gonna be _hilarious.”_

Cam’s grin turns smug, and he hands over a wrapped box. “Tell you what. If you use my present, I’ll use yours.”

“Uh oh,” Brandon smirks, expecting anything, although he’s still surprised when he gets the box open. Inside is a hot pink dildo. It’s not the biggest he’s ever seen, but it’s girthy. “You got me a sex toy? It’s not even a _good_ sex toy.”

“Hey now,” Cam looks indignant. “That’s a mold of my dick.”

_“What?!”_

It’s Cam’s turn to laugh, and his grin is wild and exuberant. _“What if I told you_ that there’s companies that will send you this gel so you can make a cast of your dick and then create a sex toy from it? I paid the extra $10 to get my balls in there too, I figured you’d like that.”

“Oh my _God,”_ Brandon groans. “Why the fuck is it hot pink? Oh my fucking God.”

Cam gives an over-exaggerated thoughtful frown. “Hmmm, you think I should have gone with flesh colored? They had other colors too, like green and - “

“Just _shut up,”_ Brandon says, whacking him lightly with the sex toy. “At least now I can smack you with your own dick. You actually want me to use this, short stuff?”

“I haven’t shown you the best part!” Cam reaches over and flicks a switch on the bottom, and the whole thing starts vibrating, because of course it does.

“I’m going to show this to everyone in the locker room. You know that, right? Everyone should have to know the horror of what your hard dick looks like, just like I do.”

“Oh, go ahead.” Cam crosses his arms over his chest, looking smug. “You know if you show everyone, they’re _all_ going to assume you used it.”

“Ugh,” Brandon mutters, turning off the vibration. Cam’s right, and so he rethinks his plan. The problem is that he _would_ let Cam fuck him, in another bizarro universe where they were both gay, he’d be so hot for this little jerkwad that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. So getting teased about using Cam’s dildo ( _Cam’s dildo_ , for fuck’s sake, that phrase will never get more normal) hits a little too close to home for him, makes him uncomfortable. “You’re the worst,” he says, instead, sending Cam into another bout of giggles.

Later, after they’ve played some Chel and smoked a few of Brandon’s cigars, Cam passes out in the recliner while they watch Elf, gently snoring under a blanket. Brandon takes the opportunity to flip through the messages and Instagrams from the holidays. Calvert, still trying to mend fences, has sent him a photo of his family dressed in festive holiday pajamas. There’s plenty of other well-wishes too, but when he checks Luc’s Instagram, his heart about stops.

Luc is sitting on a couch, holding a baby that couldn’t be more than a few months old. His caption says something about _nouveau cousin_ , which isn’t that hard to translate, but what really gets him is the look on Luc’s face. He has the dopey-soft look that everyone tends to get when they’re holding a baby, with a big sweet smile. He looks thrilled.

Brandon blows out a soft, annoyed puff of air between his teeth. Is the universe mocking him? First Cam, and now _this?_ Of course, Luc’s 19, he’s not nearly ready for a kid, but...maybe in a couple years. Six or seven years, Brandon will be retired, Luc will be in his mid-20s, he could be home while Luc was out playing. He could be a proverbial WAG, bringing a kid to home games and pointing out Daddy during warm ups. And Luc would turn and wave and smile his big grin and - 

“Okay, nope, we’re not doing this,” Brandon says, and he only realizes he’s said it out loud when Cam jerks awake, blinking sleepily at Dubi.

“Fuck, I fell asleep,” he says, yawning wide enough his jaw cracks. “Were you saying something?”

“Nothing, short stuff. I think I’m gonna head home, you go back to sleep.”

“I shouldn’t,” Cam mumbles, but before Brandon slips out the door he’s passed back out, snoring softly.

Brandon takes an Uber home, because he still can’t fucking drive, and texts Luc on the way, a photo of him and Cam wearing Santa hats. _my xmas date,_ he sends. _wish it were u instead_

His phone buzzes a few minutes later. _Everyone watching a movie, you wanna talk??_

_in an uber, ill call when im home,_ he sends, and he does Facetime Luc pretty much the second he gets into his front door, taking a quick moment to fluff his hair in the mirror before he calls. He tries to ignore the fact that he’s doing it because he wants to look good for Luc.

“Salut, Joyeux Noël,” Luc says cheerfully when he picks up. He looks like he’s in his old bedroom, lounging on a tiny - well, relatively tiny - bed, with some NHL posters on the wall.

“You go back home for two days and you forgot how to speak English?”

Luc laughs, mouth stretched wide in a grin. “What, you don’t find French sexy?”

Brandon finds it _very_ fucking sexy, but he’s not sure what to say to that. Instead, he covers with: “You know what I _don’t_ find sexy? That poster of Crosby you have stuck up behind you.”

“Oh - “ Luc peeks back at the wall and smirks. “Every Canadian hockey kid has a poster of Sid on their wall. I think they hand ‘em out when you get to bantam.”

“Well, it’s killing my vibe, roll over,” Brandon teases, and Luc giggles but does so, shifting onto his other side. “You get any good gifts? Besides that extremely sexy watch on your wrist?”

Luc lights up, showing off the watch Brandon got him, safely on his wrist. “I got so many compliments on it! No gifts quite as good as yours, but they were pretty decent. My parents framed my first goal puck and got me this awesome new blender, and my sister got me some Grubhub gift cards, and my grandmother knitted me a sweater.”

“A home knitted sweater, huh?”

“Hey, I hear that skeptical tone,” Luc says. “Mémé is an really good knitter. Here, lemme show you.” PL props up his phone against something, at an angle where Brandon can still see him, and starts yanking off his shirt. _What are you doing,_ Brandon wants to ask, but he doesn’t; it’s not often he can openly stare at Luc’s shirtless form without worrying whether a teammate or Luc himself will catch him. He’s lean and long and the muscles from this summer that Brandon remembers so well are a little softer, but still shockingly well defined. Brandon can see the sharp V of Luc’s hips leading down inside his sweatpants; suddenly all the blood is in Brandon’s groin area, and his dick is very interested in the proceedings.

Luc’s not shirtless for long though, pulling on a sweater and turning around with a flourish. “Ta-da,” he says, and Brandon has to admit it’s actually pretty well tailored, and the colors are even decent.

“Not too shabby, grandma,” he nods.

“See? Told you. I’ll tell Mémé she has another fan.”

“You do that,” Brandon chuckles, and Luc grabs up the phone and bounces back onto his bed. He’s facing the Crosby poster again, but Brandon decides not to press the issue this time.

“So did you get anything? Do you and Cam do the gift stuff?” Luc asks.

“Oh shit, lemme show you.” Brandon rifles through the overnight bag he brought to Cam’s, where his gifts are stored. “So yeah, we always get each other something nice every year, like this year Cam got me a belt and some cigars. But we also get each other something super fucked up every year, and _look_ what he got me.” He holds up the vibrator, and Luc’s eyes bug out of his head.

“Really?”

“Oh no I didn’t tell you the best - worst? - part. This is a mold of his own dick. Look at it!” Brandon thrusts the sex toy further into the camera, and now Luc is laughing, face turned into the pillow to muffle his whoops of glee.

“That _is_ fucked up,” he says, when he finally gets his giggles under control.

“You’re telling me. Look at this thing. Short and thick, just like Cam himself.”

Luc suddenly gets this gleam in his eye, and he tilts his head, considering. “Are you gonna use it?”

“What? Fuck no! That would be _entirely_ too weird.”

“But aren’t you like. Curious?”

Luc’s tone of voice gives him a little pause. It’s a little breathier now, a little lower.

A little more _turned on_. Brandon has that tone of voice fucking memorized. He’d know it anywhere. “Are you?” he asks, slowly.

“Maybe a little,” Luc admits, offering a shy smile. “You should. Use it, I mean. And then…” Luc’s mouth hangs open a moment, like he’s trying to decide whether to say his next piece, before he goes for it. “And then you should tell me about it.”

Brandon’s cock pops back up to life, and he presses his palm discreetly against his pants, keeping the phone trained towards his face. “You can use the thing if you want. I’m not. It really would be too weird, I’ve known Cam forever. But…”

“But?” Luc promptly gently, after a long moment of silence.

It’s Brandon’s turn to consider his next words closely, but he also decides to go for it, keeping his tone light, like they’re discussing the weather. “I did just buy a highly rated prostate massager for myself. Haven’t used it yet. Figure maybe I will tonight. You want a review of that?”

Luc does a poor job of hiding when he’s turned on, his eyes going wide and dark, leaning forward. “Yeah, I do,” he says, softly. “But not here. I’m home late tomorrow. Maybe I can come over and you can tell me about it?”

“Ah, I gotta go to bed early tomorrow. Surgery the day after,” he says, gently touching his face, and there’s a mix of emotions about that. Regret for sure, but also maybe relief. He definitely _definitely_ should not have Luc at his place while he describes his masturbation techniques. Brandon has self-control, but everything has its limits.

“Oh shit,” Luc says, and he looks deeply disappointed for a moment before perking up. “But one step closer to getting back on the ice with us, huh?”

“For sure. I miss being out there with you guys.”

“We miss you too, B.”

“I guess I should get to bed,” Brandon says, and while that’s not _un_ true, mostly he’s horny and half-hard and he really does want to use this sex toy and then pass out asleep.

“Merry Christmas, Brandon,” Luc says, giving a cute little wave before the video shuts off. Brandon’s off the couch in an instant, barreling down the hallway and pawing through his bedside drawer for the toy.

He’s never really been a toy guy, preferring the fast familiar comfort of his hand. Even sleeves have never been his thing, always a pain in the ass to clean and not feeling that much better than his hand to make it worth it.

But this has come highly rated, even though it looks like a weird alien with a long base and two prongs - one to push inside, and the other to press just under his balls to stimulate his prostate both inside and out. He’s grumpy about the prep before it’s even over, laying down a towel and grabbing toy-safe lube and getting himself ready. He just wants to get off, _now_ , but he takes a few deep breaths for calm, finishes the lube and presses the toy up slowly, slowly until his body relaxes and accepts it inside. It’s his favorite part, maybe, where he can look up at Luc (not Luc, some guy, any guy, a random guy, _not Luc)_ and at first there’s just blunt, uncomfortable pressure, and then suddenly he opens up and the guy is pushing inside of him and it’s this incredible fullness with a little tiny undercurrent of pain that makes the pleasure that much sweeter.

It takes a moment to find the tiny button on the base to turn it on, but once he does: “Oh _fuck,”_ he moans, immediately taken by the sensations, his dick roaring back to life from where it had flagged a bit. It feels like his prostate is being massaged on all sides, a sensation he’s never felt before, and he digs his heels into the bed, tips back his head to the ceiling and lets himself whimper as he jerks off. He thinks about Luc (not Luc not Luc _not Luc)_ with his face flushed and the look of concentration he gets on the ice (not on the ice, in the fucking board room, he’s fantasizing about some hot businessman, _not Luc)_. The - ...businessman, he’s still got half his suit on and is just fucking _giving it_ to Brandon. “You like that, you little whore? You want a promotion?” he growls, pounding away.

“Fuck,” he yelps, and he comes hard, full-body shivering with the aftershocks and then desperately reaching down to turn off the vibrations as they get to be too much in the post-orgasm afterglow.

What would Luc sound like calling someone a whore, he wonders idly, and his happy orgasm brain won’t even scold him for the line of thought because he’s decided it’s a valid question. He didn’t think about Luc as he got off, he _didn’t,_ and maybe the businessman had a French accent and looked a little like him, but Brandon’s got a _type_ okay so it’s fine.

Brandon gently eases the toy out, wincing at the sloppy feeling. He should really go to the bathroom and shower and clean the toy off, but instead he shoves the toy on his bedside dresser, wipes the lube with the towel as best he can and turns over, already half-asleep.

As Christmases go, it’s certainly not the worst he’s ever had.


	29. Chapter 29

He’s hungry and grumpy when Cam drives him to his surgical appointment, although he tries his best not to snap at Cam. Most guys are blasé to them now, but Brandon really hates hospitals. Nothing good has ever happened to him in a hospital. If he’s here, it means he’s injured.

The worst part is that they don’t just wheel him back for surgery right away. It’s _hours_ of just dicking around while they do doctor shit like check anesthesia and charts and the surgeons get ready. Brandon insists Cam leave, because he doesn’t want to be grouchy to him, and settles with his phone to try and distract himself.

_check me out,_ he sends to PL; the surgeons have made a few marks on his face with a Sharpie. _new fashion???_

_HOT,_ Luc sends back, and then: _Can’t wait to see you._

Brandon feels a sudden swell of fondness. Luc will be over to see him post-surgery, he’s pretty confident of that. He can see a picture, clear as day, where he cuddles into Luc, sleepy from the pills, and PL strokes his back and happily lets himself be used as a pillow. Normally he hates post-surgery, in pain and alone in his apartment, but this time...maybe _this_ time...it won’t be that way.

A message comes through that abruptly dumps cold water on his sweet daydreams. _Merry Xmas! What did you do with the watch?_

It’s from Saader, and he’s not sure how to answer that question. He seemed to think that giving the watch to Luc was a very poor idea, but Brandon did it anyway, and now he has to admit to it.

Well, he _could_ lie. But Saader’s hundreds of miles away. What’s the point?

_luc was v happy with his gift_

He gets back a GIF of Simon Cowell looking exasperated, but really - Saader’s nickname is _Manchild._ He can’t diss on anyone’s poor decisions.

_it’ll be fine! we’re adults over here, MANCHILD_

_Okay, when a dude nicknamed Manchild tells you your decision making is fucked, that’s when you know it’s bad,_ Saader sends back. _I love ya man, but I don’t think you know what Pandora’s box I bet you just opened up._

_did u just learn about pandoras box in school_

_Cute. Just remember I was right when things go sideways._

Brandon sends him a picture of his Sharpie’d-up face. _well ill be sideways for awhile. surgery today_

He gets back a picture of a hot guy in little tiny briefs, and right on the ass it says ‘Get Well Soon!’

Brandon laughs and shakes his head; every straight guy seems to think that all he wants to see is dick. _u have that on ur phone now!_

_Maybe I already had it ;)_ , Saader sends back, and Brandon laughs again. He’s about to respond when the nurse comes in to grab him and get him ready for final prep; about goddamn time. He sticks his phone in his pocket and forgets about Luc and watches and everything else, for a short time at least.

~~~~~

More pain greets Brandon when he wakes up, a low consistent thrum in the back of his skull, and a feeling like he’s got the flu, his sinuses all wonky. Well, he does have a titanium plate in his cheek now, so that’s not much of a surprise.

He pops his eyes open; actually it’s _eye,_ singular. One of them is swollen shut and has a nifty patch, for which Cam - who also drove him home from the hospital - has already made every pirate joke that Brandon can conceive of. Nick was waiting at his apartment when he arrived home, although he was too exhausted to do much socializing. The pair propped up every pillow Brandon owned so he could sleep upright, fed him a pain pill, and promised to stock his kitchen with everything he needed for the next few days and then insisted he take a nap.

Brandon might not have a boyfriend, or a husband, but he’s got pretty damn good _friends_ and he really owes them one. When he’s back on his feet, he resolves to do something nice for the both of them, although he doesn’t know what.

The bed shifts suddenly, and Brandon cranes his neck - slowly, slowly, everything hurts - to peer beside him. Luc is asleep on the bed, over the covers, still fully dressed except for his shoes. “Hey,” Brandon croaks out, and coughs a little. His throat feels raw, voice raspy and husky in the not-sexy way.

“Mmm,” Luc shifts and cracks an eye open, sleepy, and then sits upright in bed as his brain seems to kick on and remind him where he is. “Oh! Brandon, you’re awake!”

“So are you,” he says, is rewarded with a little smile.

“How do you feel... _matey?”_

Brandon groans and rolls his gaze away from Luc in disgust while he laughs. “Not you, too. Cam’s made every pirate joke in the book already.”

“S- _arrrrrrr_ -y,” Luc apologizes with a hearty pirate _arr_ in the middle of it and collapses into giggles, and Brandon can’t help but laugh too, moreso at PL’s delighted honks of laughter than the actual joke. It’s maybe his favorite thing, what he missed the most when they weren’t talking to each other; the easy humor between them, the way Luc’s face crinkles in amusement at the corniest lines, his delighted smiles. Before he can really stop himself, he’s reaching out for Luc, who shifts over readily.

“You’d be the worst pirate in the world. You can’t even drink rum legally,” he says, slowly pulling himself into Luc’s arms, being very careful not to jostle his face.

Luc’s arms go around Brandon, one around his chest and one around his midsection, cuddling him close. “I can drink in Canada, so maybe I’d just be a Canadian pirate,” he protests. “Anyway, pirates don’t care about the law! But you’re probably right. Like, I’d be way too nice to pillage.”

“Me, on the other hand,” Brandon murmurs, letting himself enjoy the warmth of being held, his good eye dropping back closed. “I’d be fine. I’m a jerk.”

“Yeah, but you’re my jerk,” Luc says, and Brandon snaps his eye open and glances up at PL’s face, where he’s suddenly going beet red. “Our jerk,” he amends, hastily. “Our...like, the Blue Jackets. The team’s.”

“Of course. That’s what they pay me for,” Brandon says, settling back down, although there’s pleasure coursing through his veins at the declaration. _My jerk. Mine._

No, _no_ \- not his, not Luc’s at all. He can’t think like that, he knows he can’t, but he lets himself wallow in the possessive statement for just a little longer. They can’t be together, but it’s fucking _nice_ , to know that Luc still considers Brandon his, in a certain way.

Luc’s thumb is twitching against Brandon’s chest - a nervous tic? - so Brandon covers Luc’s hand with his and gets a soft sigh in return. “I can’t stay tonight,” Luc says, sounding regretful. “We leave for Pittsburgh in the morning. And then Ottawa, but...Cam and Fliggy did a good job. Your fridge is stocked with shakes and Janelle made stuff like mashed sweet potato and a couple soups. Oh, and you were almost out of body soap, so I brought you a new one.”

“You remember my preferred brand?”

It’s mostly a joke, but Luc makes a little embarrassed huff. “Yeah,” he says. “Well I knew the brand, but I couldn’t remember the name of the scent. But I popped open the caps until I found it. I definitely recognize the smell.”

Luc remembers the smell of his _body soap_. Brandon swallows, hot tendrils of desire branching out and spreading as he remembers Luc’s face pressed against his body, kissing down his throat and chest, nuzzling at his ribs and then lower still. Of course he would be intimately familiar with his soap. But to still hold onto the memories...it’s something. “I should probably eat,” he says, before he does something he regrets. His voice sounds a little huskier than it did before, and it's not because of the surgery. 

Luc offers an arm for Brandon to pull himself out of bed, then goes into his closet to find his favorite Jackets team sweater and even helps gently pull it on. Brandon’s not _that_ incapacitated that he needs help getting dressed, but having someone take care of him at this sort of level is something he never gets, and it’s nice.

They don’t speak too much until Brandon’s on the couch, eating a plate of scrambled eggs that Luc has made for him. “So you get to have a heart-to-heart with Crosby tomorrow. Lucky you. You’re still doing that?” Luc nods, and Brandon snorts. “He’s such a sanctimonious prick sometimes. Most times, actually. I know it’ll probably be tempting to stuff something in his mouth to just shut him up, but I meant what I said last time. That something probably _shouldn’t_ be your dick.”

Luc stares down at his lap, playing with his watch, twisting it around his wrist. “What do you think he wants to talk about? Like, what’s he _like?”_

Brandon realizes with a start that Luc is a little nervous. He’s played against some big-name guys on the ice before, including Sid, and Brandon’s never seen any hint of intimidation or hesitancy from Luc before. But this isn’t the ice, this isn’t hockey. This is sitting down next to the guy who was plastered on your wall growing up and having a talk about being _gay,_ so yeah, Brandon kind of gets the jitters that Luc has. “Oh, he probably wants to pull the ‘wise-fag-elder-Sidney-Crosby’ shit,” he says. “Take it with a grain of salt. He’s so far in the closet he’s sucking dick in Narnia. As for what he’s ‘like’, I don’t really know. We’re not friends. He’s just got a great ass and he lets me fuck it, so.”

“If you were coming with us on this trip...would you fuck him?”

Oh, that feels like a loaded question. Brandon studies Luc’s face, but Luc still has his head tilted carefully down towards his lap. Anyway, with just one eye open everything looks vaguely fuzzy and out-of-sorts, so he can’t quite tell what answer Luc is angling for. He decides to tell the truth.

“Probably,” he says. “Crosby and I have fucked every time we’re in town together for the last few years. I don’t really fuck strangers. I mean it’s fine if you do,” he hurries out, because he _knows_ Luc is on Grindr, has occasionally picked up guys in hockey-apathetic cities. “I did when I was younger. Nowadays...I dunno. I’m more paranoid about it. Crosby won’t tell anyone, and he sucks a mean dick, so it’s a win-win.”

“But you don’t want me fucking him.” Luc’s tone is still carefully neutral, still preoccupied with his lap.

“He won’t fuck you. You’re too young for him.” Luc glances up sharply at that, and Brandon shrugs. “His words, not mine. But...man, you do you. If you wanna hit that, and Sid’s into it, be my guest. We’re not dating, right Luc?”

“But like. Would you be angry?”

Brandon’s confused for a split second, and then he gets it, or at least he thinks he does. Luc wants to know if he would be _jealous_. And yeah, fuck yes Brandon would be jealous as hell, the idea of Sidney Crosby putting his mitts on Luc, _his_ Luc - 

But no, Luc’s not his, and so he can’t be jealous, can’t admit to it at all. “You do you,” he repeats again, and is met with a thin smile by Luc. It’s not really a smile, actually, more like an upturned grimace, a mockery of a smile. It’s not the answer he wanted to hear, apparently, but Brandon can’t give him any other answer. For both their sakes.

“You got an early flight, don’t you?” Brandon asks, because he wants to offer Luc an out from this suddenly-awkward evening, and PL’s grimace-smile relaxes into something a little more sincere and he nods.

“Yeah. You’ll be alright, won’t you? Do you need anything else?”

_A hug? A kiss? Anything you’ll give me?_ “I’m good,” Brandon says instead, and Luc stands up, gently claps him on the shoulder.

“Can’t wait til you’re back out with us,” he says, and his hands move up, gently smooths down a tousled lock of Brandon’s hair, and then he’s gone, leaving Brandon to shiver at the memory of the touch.

~~~~~

He deliberately doesn’t text Luc before the Pittsburgh game, even though he’s dying to know how his meeting with Crosby went. Did they forgo their pre-game nap? Did Sid drive Luc back to his big fuck-you house and take him apart in his big fuck-you bed? Would Luc have topped, or bottomed? The whole scenario makes him feel weird, annoyed at the possibility and then annoyed at _being_ annoyed, because Brandon knows once Sid has made his mind up about something like _ethical teammate behavior_ there’s no going back for him. There is absolutely no way Sid would go for it. Still, even the slimmest possibility it may have happened makes him grumpy.

The game is a lot less chippy than the last time the two clubs met. Apparently the Christmas good cheer is still holding over for everyone. Not that anyone’s out there holding hands and caroling, but there’s nothing dirty happening. Brandon scrutinizes every time Luc is out on the ice with Crosby, but he gets no hints of what happened earlier that day.

_How’d surgery go?_ He gets the text right as the game’s going into the second intermission. It’s Saader, so he takes a picture of his face, eyepatch and all, and sends it out.

_Ooh,_ comes the reply. _How many pirate jokes you heard so far?_

_o u dont even know. ALL OF THEM_

_That’s dumb. There’s so many better characters with eye patches! I think you look good with it._

Brandon snorts; that’s like, objectively untrue, but he won’t turn down the compliment. _so what characters, like who?_

_OH,_ Saader sends back, and then the pictures start rolling in, each accompanied by a name.

_Nick Fury_  
_Snake Plissken_  
_That Bond villain_  
_That chick from Kill Bill_  
_The Governor_  
_Like half the characters in Metal Gear Solid_  
_Mad-Eye Moody!  
_

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Brandon has to look up that last one and laughs when he sees where it’s from. _um, r u a harry potter fan, really_

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_Proud Hufflepuff,_ Saader sends back, and Brandon doesn’t even know what the fuck that is. _I feel like you’re def a Slytherin,_ comes the next text.

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_ur saying words, but wtf are those?_

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_So like every House in HP has a character trait. Hufflepuffs are loyal and patient and fair and accepting and just NICE._

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That _does_ actually sound a lot like Saader, who has always kind of reminded him somewhat of a puppy at times, sweet and fiercely loyal and friendly to everyone. He does a quick Google search on Slytherin and of course, it’s the house with all the bad guys. Brandon’s pretty used to being the bad guy. _hey that snake house is evil! u think im evil?_ he sends. 

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_Well, they’re proud and ambitious and they get a bad rap for being assholes but they’re awesome to their friends. Real jerks to their enemies though. That sound like someone you know?_

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_maybe_ , Brandon has to admit, but then he’s struck by the absurdity of it all, that they’re talking fake magic houses. It’s like a bad zodiac or something (Brandon’s a Taurus, which is supposed to be ‘sensual and stable’ and that’s a real crock of shit right there).

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They talk a little more about his timeline to return from injury, but then the game’s back on and he lets the texts go, doesn’t have the brain cells right now to watch and text, still focused on Luc. Luc looks...distracted maybe isn’t the best word for it, but he doesn’t seem _hyped_ for the game, no intensity. Did Crosby fuck him into pacifism or something?

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“Goddamnit,” he mutters, and he gets up to take a pain pill and get some ice cream, anything but think about _that._ The Jackets lose in a shootout; Luc misses his attempt.

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He doesn’t text Luc that night, just goes to bed. But he wakes up to a message from him. _How’s the eye??_

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And actually, it doesn’t feel too bad. He still wants a pain pill, but he doesn’t feel like he might murder someone if he doesn’t get one immediately, so that’s an improvement. He still pops one anyway before he answers. _getting better!!!_

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Then, because he absolutely can’t resist anymore, he follows up with: _sooo. u? and crosby???_

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_Are you asking if we had sex?_

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_i just meant how it went in general,_ he types. _but um yes while we’re on the subject…_

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_He’s a nice guy. No sex,_ Luc sends, and after a beat his phone buzzes again with the new message. _He’s not the one I want._

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_who do you want??_ Brandon types, and then immediately deletes. God knows he wants to ask, but he’s not ready for the answer. He’s not sure which would be worse: if the answer were him, or if it was someone else. _cant always get what u want i guess_ , he sends instead.

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It’s a long time before the response comes through, long enough that Brandon’s managed to suck down an entire breakfast smoothie. _No_ , the text says. _You can’t._

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“No shit,” Brandon mutters; he knows _that_ all too well.

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~~~~~

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The Jackets lose an annoying game in Ottawa on the 29th, then head home and have the day off on the 30th. Brandon would have liked to see Luc, but it doesn’t work out; he has a spate of medical check-ins, and then Cam drags him home and they watch movies while Nat makes this fantastic winter squash soup, and they insist he take all the leftovers home. Luc says he has to catch up on errands anyway.

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The Jackets have an NYE game, and Brandon sticks his head in the locker room to see Boone flitting around like a hyperactive bird. “Does anyone need my address? Address? You all got it?” he’s saying, stalking down the row of stalls.

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“Everyone has your fucking address,” Seth chirps. “We go to your place like every single year for new year’s, and I’m pretty sure you and Murr are going to live with each other in that same fucking apartment forever, because you’re hetero life mates.”

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“I’m just checking,” Boone pouts, and then his eyes light up when he sees Brandon. “Dubi!” he says, charging over and opening his arms for a hug. “How the hell are you? You’re coming tonight, right?”

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“Hey Bam,” Brandon greets him with a bro-hug, patting his back and thanking god that he’s been able to switch out of the eye patch to a pair of dark aviator sunglasses. If Boone saw him in an eye patch, he would never fucking hear the end of it. “I’ll be there for sure. I won’t be able to drink, though.”

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“Sucks,” Boone says. “But we’ll make sure you have fun.”

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“I’m sure you will, man.”

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“It’s gonna be awesome!” Boone shrieks, and then heads off to get the rest of his gear on.

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Brandon gets pats and hugs and hair ruffles (“come on, I fucking gelled it tonight,” he complains to Cam, so of course every guy that overhears does the same thing) from pretty much everyone on the team as they head to the ice. Luc’s in the middle of the line and he opts for a quick blink-and-you-missed-it hug, although his huge delighted smile at seeing Brandon betrays his true feelings. Matt Calvert hesitates, but grabs him close in a big embrace, like he’s trying to prove he’s cool with it all. Both Savard and Johnson still just offer tight, close-mouthed smiles and fist bumps. Whatever; as long as Savy isn’t treating Luc any differently, he can deal with David being weird to him.

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The game is fucking ugly, and it blows up in the second period as the Jackets let in four goals and end up losing 5-0. Brandon’s pretty sure the team is going to get sloppy tonight at the party. The mood in the locker room after the game is a little sour, but it’s tempered a bit by the upcoming party. “At least I get to drink this night away,” Cam sighs at him as he heads to the showers.

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“We have practice in the morning,” Nick reminds him as he follows Cam into the shower, sounding like a very long-suffering father.

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Boone and Ryan live close to the arena, within walking distance on a nice day, except it’s goddamn December and cold as shit outside. He squeezes into Nick’s car and they drive the mile or so which somehow takes almost ten minutes, and they’re among the last to arrive. Damn near the entire team is piled into the apartment, and it’s too hot and too loud, and Brandon only has a Gatorade in his hands instead of what he really wants. He tries not to stare in jealousy as the Finns, Korpi and Nuti and Hanni all take shots, toasting loudly in Finnish every time.

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A lot of the girlfriends and wives are here too (contributing to the _too loud and too hot_ problem, although now the party has spilled onto the balcony and the heat is being cut with chilled gusts from the open door) and Brandon’s jealousy deepens as it gets closer to midnight. Guys are getting a little tipsy, sticking close to their girls as the new year creeps up. Cam’s in the corner with Natalie, hands on her belly - just barely showing - and both of them are giggling and staring into each other’s eyes. Nick and Janelle are holding hands and chatting with everyone, an easy and familiar affection. Artemi is talking soft Russian to his girlfriend (Brandon can’t remember her name) and she’s beaming in that new-love sort of way.

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Brandon’s alone and he’s _sober_ and it fucking sucks. And his head is starting to ache from the noise and the heat and the fact that he’s about six hours from his last pain pill. Why didn’t he bring any?

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He finds Ryan in the kitchen, acting as a good host and making drinks. “Yo Murr, you mind if I lay down in your room for a bit? My head,” he vaguely gestures towards his face.

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“Aw, that sucks. But yeah man, absolutely. Second door on the right,” Ryan says.

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Ryan’s room is somewhat clean - not quite spotless, but certainly nicer than what he envisions Boone’s bedroom would be like - and he flops down on the bed, closing his eyes. It’s quite a bit cooler here, without so many people crowded around, and the noise is a dull murmur instead of a loud pounding. He’s not sure how long he’s in there, but after what feels like maybe twenty or thirty minutes he hears people chanting the countdown, _ten, nine, eight…_

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The place erupts into cheers and off-key singing, muted through the walls, and Brandon groans and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t really want to be out there anyway. Alone and sober sucks in a party full of drunk happy couples, and he feels pathetic and mopey, not able to put on a happy face through the pain in his head.

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He hears the door softly click open, and suspects perhaps it’s Ryan, or maybe Boone, and he internally groans, not wanting to deal with them right now. But the quiet “hey” shocks him into opening his eyes and turning to look at the door.

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It’s Luc.

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“Murr told me you were in here,” Luc says, shutting the door behind him and moving over to the bed. “Are you okay?”

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“Just a little headache. No big.” Brandon pulls himself upright then stands slowly, rubbing the side of his face that isn’t recovering from surgery.

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“You sure?” Luc looks so concerned, worry written clear on his features.

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“I’m fine,” Brandon says, and he pats Luc’s arm reassuringly and then...his hand lingers on Luc’s arm, slides down until they’re holding hands. “If, uh, if you want to know the truth, though. It hurts a little. Seeing everyone out there, ready to start the new year with somebody by their side.”

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Luc nods, drops his gaze to where their hands are twined together. “It sucked,” he says. “The clock struck midnight and everyone was out there kissing. Even Murr and Bam have their new girlfriends here...I mean, there were a few single guys, me an’ Andy and Jonesy, but…”

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“It’s not fucking fair,” Brandon agrees, taking a small step closer. “It should be us.”

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Luc nods, looking miserable, averting his eyes from Brandon. Brandon feels almost suffocated from the indignity, the situation that has made this beautiful man in front of him look so sad. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking _fair_. All he wants to do, more than anything in the whole world, is kiss the frown off Luc’s face.

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Just once. Just once more.

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“Luc,” Brandon says, bringing his free hand up to cup PL’s cheek, gently pull his gaze back to Brandon’s. “Maybe - for old time’s sake - just this time - “

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Luc gets it right away, eyes going bright and eager. “Just this time,” he agrees, breathlessly, and wraps Brandon in his arms.

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Brandon thought he remembered everything about Luc’s kisses, and yet he’s still shocked by how _soft_ Luc’s mouth is. Was it always this soft? Brandon can’t help the groan, letting his mouth fall open, letting Luc inside. The soft, sweet little kiss turns heavy and needy in an instant; Luc’s tongue is in his mouth, and he’s rolling his hips against Brandon’s, tiny little whimpers of pleasure escaping every few seconds.

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There's a little burst of pain as Luc deepens the kiss further, Brandon's newly-repaired face protesting at the contortions of his mouth, and that shocks him back into reality. Although Brandon never wants to stop, not ever, he’s suddenly cognizant that they’re in Ryan Murray’s bedroom and anyone could walk in at any time. “Wait,” he pants against Luc’s mouth. “We gotta - we gotta stop.”

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Luc licks his lips, breathing just as hard, taking a forceful step back, like he’s afraid what he’ll do if he doesn’t separate from Brandon. “Right,” he murmurs. “So that’s - that was it, huh?”

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“One more for old time’s sake,” Brandon says with a tight smile. “Now you gotta go, before anyone finds you in here with me.”

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Luc’s mouth opens and shuts a few times, like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to say. He finally decides on: “happy new year, B,” and then he’s gone.

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Brandon’s still half-hard when Nick peeks his head in the room. “Hey bud, you okay? Ready to go home? You shoulda told me you were hurting, we could have left earlier.”

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“Oh no, it’s fine. But yeah, I’m ready.”

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“Seriously, we could have left earlier,” Nick says, and he’s already got Brandon’s coat and offers it up. “It’s no big deal.”

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“Fliggy, I had a great time tonight,” he says, truthfully. “Promise.”

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The boys say goodnight as he and Nick head out - Janelle has her own ride - and Luc is nowhere to be seen, but that’s just fine. Perhaps Brandon will regret the hell out of this in the morning, but when he wishes everyone a happy new year, his smile is sincere.

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	30. Chapter 30

They don’t see each other the next day, although Brandon gets a _had a great time last night :)_ note from Luc, and a _it’s gonna be a great year!_

Brandon’s a little skeptical about that last part - his face hurts, he’s had a shitty season, he still doesn’t have Luc the way he really wants to - but hey, maybe PL knows something he doesn’t.

The Jackets go on a road trip, eke out a win at Dallas and then get shut out in Colorado, and although it’s frustrating to just be watching on television, he’s healing well. By the time his teammates return from their road trip, he feels like a normal human again. He can eat _real food._ His doctors clear him for driving. He’s not ready to get back on the ice yet, but they say the magic word _soon_ , so maybe Luc’s prediction has come true.

Even better, his favorite NFL team - the Kansas City Chiefs - win their division and send him a big care package with a hat and a shirt and some other cool stuff. They have a playoff game on Saturday, and normally Brandon would watch football with Andy and Jonesy and some of the other guys, but he knows he can be a real grumpy asshole about playoff losses, so he watches at home, by himself.

And of course, the Chiefs lose to the Tennessee fucking Titans. Not just _lose_ ; no, the Titans rally from being behind 21-3 to win it 22-21. Just like that, the Chiefs blow it, an amazing year down the drain. Brandon really fucking hates single elimination games. “Why do I even like this sport,” he snarls to his empty apartment, pacing around the living room with a beer in his hand.

That’s how Luc finds him, blood boiling, too angry and frustrated to sit still. He’d totally forgotten about inviting Luc over; at the time, Brandon figured he could spend his celebratory mood with Luc. But the Chiefs fucking lost, and he’s not feeling much like a party.

“They lost,” Luc guesses correctly, shuffling tentatively into the living room and watching Brandon pace.

“Of course they lost. Every year, every fucking year. We’re in the hunt like, every year and _every_ year they’re disappointing. Why did I choose this team to follow, like a _fucking idiot?_ Alaska doesn’t have a team, I could have chosen any fucking team - “

“Brandon.” Luc’s keeping his face very neutral, trying to project calm, but Brandon can’t help but feel a bite of irritation. “Why don’t you collect on that massage I owe you, eh?”

That soothes him a little, the angry energy spiking along his limbs fading into a dull thrum. “You don’t have to - “

“Brandon. I _want_ to.”

He can’t say no to that, so Brandon ends up laying on the couch, feet propped on Luc’s lap and head lolled back on a pillow as PL works his magic. “You have no idea how good this feels,” he groans as Luc digs his palm into the arch of his foot.

“Oh, I think I have an idea,” Luc says, amusement in his voice. “These are happier noises than you made during sex, I definitely have an idea.”

“Hey now,” Brandon scolds playfully, but his brain perks up at the reminder of them having sex. He’s still running hot from the Chiefs loss, even with the massage, and it shifts instantly into sexual interest. Anger and passion, fighting and fucking, have always been just a thin coin flip away from each other for him. But just like he can’t do anything about the Chiefs losing, he can’t fuck Luc either, so he squirms to get comfortable and tries to relax, tries to get his blood back down to a simmer from where it’s starting to boil over.

He mostly succeeds, until Luc pats his calf firmly and says, “Okay, feet are done. How do you want your scalp?” Brandon had forgotten about the _scalp_ part, and he struggles to think of a position to get in that’s not going to rile him up further. After a long moment he thinks, _fuck it,_ and shifts with his back against Luc’s chest. It’s intimate, and probably ill-advised, but Brandon figures he deserves something nice right now, with the way his favorite team has fucked him over _again._

“How’d you get so good at this?” he huffs as Luc runs firm fingers through his hair, scritching at his temples and paying special attention to the back of his skull. His fingers move slow, almost sensuous, and it’s meant to be calming but somehow it’s not. The relaxation of the foot massage slowly disappears; with each pass along his scalp it’s like some coil in his belly gets wound tighter and tighter, some heavy weight settling on his chest.

It’s the weight of indecision and the hot coil of desire, because what he wants, more than anything, is to kiss Luc. It would be so simple, just a quick shift, a slight turn of his shoulders - hell, he’s already _in Luc’s arms_ \- and if it’s just one more kiss, what could it hurt? They kissed on New Year’s eve, and nothing has happened, nobody knows. Nobody _has_ to know.

It could be different this time. No more texts, no dating, not being in love, just the occasional hanging out that turns into some kissing. Chicks do that all the time, right? Make out with their friends, and it means nothing?

“You’re all tense again,” Luc murmurs, and he’s close enough to Brandon’s ear that he can feel the warm puff of air when he breathes, which sends a jolt straight down his spine to Brandon’s dick. Any feeble resistance his brain is trying to send up to this new plan abruptly dies, and he half-turns in Luc’s arms.

Luc stills, eyes wide and fingers still dug into Brandon’s hair. “Brandon,” he says, barely more than an exhaled breath of a word.

The first kiss is sort of awkward, with Brandon at an odd angle, so he pulls away and twists in Luc’s arms to end up in his lap, face-to-face; Luc helps, strong arms yanking him into position in a silent understanding of where this is going. They fit together perfectly in the second kiss. Luc’s hands are back in his hair, and Luc’s tongue is in his mouth and it’s everything Brandon’s been dreaming of for months. Based on the little whimpers Luc is making, maybe it’s the same for him too.

They ramp up to frantic, Brandon keeping Luc pinned to the couch cushions as much as he has a firm grip on Brandon’s lapels to hold him close. Luc slides his hands down to Brandon’s Chiefs jersey, starts peeling it off, and Brandon’s not sure he’s regretted anything more in his life than when he has to stop it.

“No,” he pants out, breathless from the kiss. “Just - just kissing. It’s fine if we just kiss, right? Like, we can still be friends and sometimes just, uh, make out, right?”

It sounds ridiculous even to Brandon’s own ears, but Luc nods eagerly, like it makes the most sense in the world. “Oh yeah, of course,” he says, and pulls Brandon’s mouth back to his.

It’s slower now that Luc knows there’s no other end game besides this, the kisses going deep and unhurried. Even though they have to keep their clothes on, Brandon can’t help but _touch;_ he skims his fingers down Luc’s sides, enjoying the impressive firmness, the unyielding muscles. Luc has his hands hooked behind Brandon’s ears, thumbing along the soft skin and short hairs there, and Brandon is achingly, terribly hard.

Luc’s having the same issues, but neither pulls away until their mouths are dry and lips both a little beard-burned. “I can get us some Gatorade,” Brandon whispers against his mouth.

“I’m, uhhhhh, gonna go to the bathroom,” Luc mutters, hobbling there a little awkwardly after Brandon gets off his lap. He’s in there a lot longer than it would take just to piss, and he’s not hard when he returns, so it’s not exactly a mystery what he was doing. As much as Brandon would have liked to see it himself, it’s a good thing, he thinks; Luc _gets it,_ they can kiss but the other stuff is off-limits. And if that means Luc has to jerk off in his bathroom after they make out, well, it sucks but it’s better than the alternative.

They end up watching a movie together, making out a little more over the credits, and then Brandon sends him home with a Gatorade. He doesn’t entirely trust himself to let Luc sleep over, not with this new element of their relationship, and he doesn’t want Savy getting suspicious anyway.

Just when he’s thinking maybe this whole thing _isn’t_ a good idea, Luc gives him his goofy crooked smile that he loves, tells him goodnight, and gives him a sweet kiss goodbye, lingering against his lips for a moment. Good idea? Brandon mentally revises his opinion; it’s a _great_ idea.

He watches Luc leave and then strips out of his Chiefs gear, the loss forgotten as he jerks himself off, thinking of PL’s mouth on his.

~~~~~

They don’t have a chance to be alone for the next few days; the Jackets play Florida at home, and then they head out of town and play Toronto. Luc scores in both. Brandon, meanwhile, continues to rehab at home, until he finally gets the good word that he can start skating again. He’s not ready for contact, definitely not ready to play a game, but skating is the all-important first step in the process.

The Jackets are still out of town on a road trip when he steps onto the practice rink attached to Nationwide. It’s early, barely past 8a, and the ice has that crisp cold smell that it only gets before warm bodies heat the building all day. There’s been nobody here for over twelve hours, and just like he did when he was a kid, he marvels at the fresh lines his skates make in the unblemished ice. Brandon hadn’t realized how much he missed skating - not just the team, or the competition, or the roar of the crowd, just skating - until right now.

“Glad you feel that way,” Lee, the Jackets’ skating coach, says with a grin once Brandon tells him how he’s feeling. “Because you’re gonna skate your ass off today. Get those legs working again.”

He’s not wrong. Just ten minutes in, Brandon’s covered in sweat and his legs feel like jelly from the power skating drills he’s being put through. They stop and take lots of breaks - the doctors have specifically warned against over-exertion, for the moment at least - but it’s still tough. Not only that, but doctors have _insisted_ that Brandon install a visor into his helmet, a tinted one no less, and it feels wrong to be staring out from behind glass. But it’s a necessary evil. Bright lights still play havoc with his vision at times, and a puck to his reconstructed face could end his career. Still, he’s unhappy with it. It’s been twelve or so years that he’s played with only a helmet, no cage or visor, and he’d always intended to keep it that way.

It’s better than a finished career though, he supposes.

Before they finish up, Brandon takes a selfie with his new helmet/visor combo, and after he’s done showering and back at home, he sends it off to a few guys who have been asking how he’s doing: Scott Hartnell, Brian Boyle, Brandon Saad, a few others. And Luc, of course, who replies back with a big wide-eyed emoji.

_yeah i gotta use it. i look douchy as hell, but at least im skating!!_

_Hey, Ovi used a tinted visor for a long time,_ Luc responds. _You’re in good company!_

_does this mean im gonna be scoring more goals??_

_Hell yes. Can’t wait til you’re back for real!_

“Fuck, me too,” Brandon mutters aloud to himself. Soon, two or three weeks, and he’ll be back out with his team, his buddies, his Luc. He can’t wait.

~~~~~

Brandon regrets sending the photo pretty much immediately with the amount of chirping he’s getting from his old buddies. He’s on the couch watching the tail end of the Jackets’ road trip, looking sluggish against the Sabres, when another text chimes through. He grimaces in annoyance; if he has to tell Hartsy one more fucking time it’s a medical device and he’s not trying to look cool, he’s going to _lose it._

It’s not from Hartnell, though. Saader - who gave him a few playful chirps but has at least dropped it quickly - has sent him a picture of a beach house. _Look familiar?_

He squints at the photo, immediately regretting it with a headache threatening at the action. _maybe? y?_

_Cam rec’d it,_ Saader responds, and now Brandon recognizes it. Years ago, he went on vacation with Fligs and Cam, staying in this beautiful beach house and drinking the days away, swimming in the crystal-clear water. Nick had just been named captain, and they were all excited about the upcoming season and turning around the lackluster Jackets. That was also when he realized he had a crush on Cam, pressed close to him down there in a hot tub, watching him drink beers and giggle in the flickering tiki torches of a warm summer evening. A stupid schoolgirl crush that time somehow hasn’t dulled.

_going this summer?_ he asks Saader.

_Bye week actually,_ he sends back. _Me and Alyssa. Hopefully we’ll have as much fun as u did. Anything u recommend?_

_well the hot tub is pretty nice._

_LOL. You defile that when u were down there?_

_dude. it was me and cam and nick_

_Soooo is that a yes?_

Brandon laughs out loud at that. _if either of them were gay and into me_ , he sends back, _life would be v different right now._ God, would it ever. Would management still shit a brick, he wonders, if it wasn’t the young star rookie that Brandon was fucking? Would they care if it was a fellow veteran? What if it was the captain?

_I’ll bet._ There’s a bit of a pause, and then another message: _So then what u doing for bye week?_

Bye week, shit, Brandon realizes he actually has no plans for bye week and it’s coming up _fast._ He remembers he and Matt Calvert making tentative plans at the beginning of the season to go out of town, maybe to Vail or Miami, but that obviously never firmed up. And even though they’re friendly again, that’s probably still too much, too soon. He fires off a quick ping to PL: _so um what r u doing for bye week?_ and then responds back to Saader, _no firm plans yet if u can believe it_

_Hey, I’m not on your team. You don’t have to lie to me._

_what???_

Saader sends back a [GIF of Judge Judy](https://media1.tenor.com/images/f68831c58a1864fe6001696cf5d43c38/tenor.gif?itemid=5406593) pointing at her watch.

_i dont get it,_ Brandon texts back stubbornly.

_If you’re spending it with Dubois, u can tell me. We are both on team fuck-off-Torts on this one._

Half of Brandon feels relieved at the text; maybe Saader is someone he can talk to about this whole can of worms, someone he can trust, a non-Blue Jacket that he knows won’t be weird in the room or tell another teammate and have it maybe get back to management. But the other half of him is annoyed, because on some level Saader was right and he was wrong. Giving Luc the watch _has_ driven their relationship further, into a place where it perhaps shouldn’t be going. With Luc hundreds of miles away in a different city, he can realize that with a clear head.

But Brandon also fucking hates being wrong, and he’s stubborn enough that he doesn’t want to admit it right now. Hell, Luc hasn’t even responded about bye week! It’s not a _lie_ ; Brandon truly doesn’t know what he’s doing for bye week. Not yet.

_srsly i dont have plans yet,_ he sends. _should i tell u as soon as i do? huh dad?_

_Now ure calling me Daddy? Dubi I didn’t know u felt that way._

_OMG NO,_ Brandon texts back, and gets in return a bunch of laughing emojis. It makes him feel slightly less annoyed, but not enough to admit that Saader might be right.

He gets another message shortly after the Sabres beat the Jackets. _You wanna do something?_ It’s from Luc.

_u dont have plans?_

_Meh,_ he gets back in return, which he interprets to mean that Luc _does_ have some sort of plan, but he’s willing to blow it off in favor of hanging out with Brandon. Which is a lot to digest, but it also makes him smile like a big doof. _We could go to Canada?_

_i was thinking someplace warmer_

_The beach??_

Brandon grins. _the beach_ , he confirms.

_Let’s go!!_

_i got ur travel plans when u get back to cbus,_ Brandon says, and is met with a heart eyes emoji. Unfortunately, Saader took that nice beach house, but he doesn’t want to be on the same island with him anyway; he’s not sure what the hell he’d do if they somehow ran into each other. Brandon wants somewhere warm, somewhere where they won’t be recognized or bothered, maybe with a private beach, definitely with a private pool.

And a hot tub, with those tiki torches where he can watch the light flicker and illuminate Luc’s handsome face, darkness buzzing around them, just like so many years ago with Cam. Except this time he’s going to set his beer down, cut through the bubbling water, settle right into Luc’s lap and kiss him for all he’s worth. Just like he always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's Brandon](https://i.imgur.com/fVJwmE1.jpg) very proud of his Chiefs gear.


	31. Chapter 31

Brandon spends way too much time browsing last-minute Caribbean options, but he actually gets a pretty nice deal on a private villa in Turks and Caicos with its own sandy beach, outdoor pool and hot tub. Well, _nice deal_ is sort of relative, because it still costs almost ten grand a night, but it’s pretty much everything Brandon wanted, so he books it. Finding a flight that doesn’t take half a day is a bit trickier, but he manages to grab two first class tickets out of JFK with only seven hours of flight time. He definitely doesn’t get a good deal on _that._

Looking at the schedule, it’s going to be a clusterfuck for Luc. The Jackets play Buffalo on the 11th, fly back that night to Columbus, have a home game on the 12th, and then a very early plane ride to to JFK and then to paradise to start bye week on the 13th. It would be way too much for Brandon at his age, but he remembers being 19, with a motor that just wouldn't quit. Luc will be fine.

_u gonna have time 2 pack?_ he asks Luc.

_I’ll have time. For the beach, I’ll make time!!_

Brandon skates again on the 11th, and it’s still exhausting, but just a touch easier than that first day. The trainers give him a target of about two weeks out - January 25th, against the Coyotes - to return to game time action. One of the strength and conditioning coaches makes a work out that he’s supposed to follow during bye week, something he can do in the small home gym that the private villa has. He’d like to do a _different_ kind of working out with Luc, but he doesn’t say that.

That evening, he’s packing his suitcase and watching his team lose to the fucking bottom barrel Buffalo Sabres who are playing their AHL goalie. Torts looks furious on the bench, so it’s one of those games that Brandon is sort of glad he’s missing. His phone buzzes just as Okposo scores to make it 2-0 Sabres, and he snatches it up so he doesn’t have to look at Torts having another conniption.

_So u going to mope in Cbus all bye week or you finally find a nice place to take your boy??_

It’s from Saader, and Brandon’s not quite sure how to take that question. Is this genuine interest, or friendliness, or something else? As usual, he interprets it completely wrong and shoots back: _y u care? u wanna gossip this around or something?_

_Whoa bud. You have the wrong idea_  
_2 things_  
_1, you deserve to be happy_  
_2, picturing Torts freakout face if he ever found out makes ME happy  
_

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Brandon feels a pang of regret; Saader _has_ tried hard to be a friend during this mostly shitty time. They weren’t like, best buds when they played together in Columbus, but Brandon always liked him well enough. Enough to trust that he doesn’t have bad intentions in mind, and probably just still feels kind of bad that his team was the catalyst for this whole secret getting out. _sorry,_ he sends back. _im an asshole_

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_Luckily I already knew that._

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He sends along a few pictures of the villa with its sandy white beaches and waving palm trees. _we leave on saturday,_ he texts. _also wtf, didnt u just tell me over xmas this was a bad idea? w/me and luc?_

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Saader sends along a wide-eyed emoji at the pictures. _Oh Dubi its a terrible idea. But if ur gonna do it, then fuckin go for it. If ur taking him to THIS kinda place you obviously love him. And I think you need something good in ur life. You deserve it._

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“I do deserve it,” he mutters out loud, but if he’s gonna be honest with Saader, he needs to explain himself a little more. _well look we arent dating. that isnt allowed. we just mess around a little. but nothing serious._

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The call comes through about three minutes later. _“Dude,”_ Saader says with a sigh. “Dude.”

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“Stop calling me ‘dude’, Saader, what’s up?”

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“That’s a 13k per night stay. I’m not even spending that much on me and Alyssa, and we’re _dating.”_

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Brandon scoffs. “Did you look up the price on my villa?”

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“I mean, I just booked my own trip so I know approximately how much shit costs now.” Saader pauses. “Okay, maybe I also looked it up.”

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“Dude,” Brandon says, in an mocking exasperated tone that mimics Saader’s earlier one. “Also, for the record, I didn’t pay 13k. I got a really big discount on it. It was less than ten.”

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“Ohhh, Dubi, wow, that just changes everything. Less than ten grand, I mean how could you _not_ go?”

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Brandon rolls his eyes at Saader’s mocking tone. “Funny. You’re a real comedian.”

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“So they say. You’re gonna tell him how you feel, right? I was serious before. It’s pretty obvious you love him, so you should just tell him, bad idea or not.”

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“Are all straight men this fuckin’ gossipy?” Brandon waits a long moment, but Saader doesn’t say anything in response, so he continues. “I just told you, I can’t. It’s not allowed. If we’re dating, and management finds out, it could ruin my career.”

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“Dubi - “ Saader lets out a long breath. “You never fuckin’ said _that.”_

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“Yeah, well.”

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“Okay, I revise my statement. You don’t tell him you love him and you cancel the vacation right now.”

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Brandon snorts, watching the final dregs of the Jackets game as Eichel scores an empty-netter to seal the deal. “I thought you said I deserve to be happy.”

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“You do! But not at the expense of your career! You think it matters if you’re officially dating or not? Dubi, you’re taking this kid - “ Brandon flinches at the word _kid_ \- “down to the Caribbean and ‘messing around’ with him, you think if management finds out they’re gonna give it a shit if you call it dating or not?”

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Okay, he’s got a point. “We’ll be careful.”

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“You’re the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch I know, so I’m not gonna change your mind,” Saader says. “But my advice: don’t tell anyone, not your teammates, not your families, nobody knows you take this vacation. No Insta photos, no tweets, none of that shit. And try not to let him get too drunk.”

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That last bit throws Brandon off. “Wait, what?”

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“I remember being a teenager. Getting drunk seemed like the perfect time for lofty declarations of devotion and grand stupid gestures of love. So unless you wanna come back to the States officially a couple again...keep him sober. And seriously, don’t tell anyone.”

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“Except you?”

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“Duh.”

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“We’re not _that_ obvious.”

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Saader lets out a long whoosh of air. “Dubi, you’re kind of a disaster,” he says. “But I’ll believe you. Just make sure it stays that way. If you want my professional advice.”

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“As a matter of fact I _didn’t_ want your advice, Saader. You called me, remember?”

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“So let me know how it goes,” he says in a very matter-of-fact tone, like of course Brandon is going to tell him all the vacation details, and then the line goes dead.

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Brandon shakes his head. The media always think gay men are bad, but straight boys and their gossip, they’re the _worst._

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~~~~~

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He wakes up the next morning to a soft kiss that tastes like coffee. “Good morning,” Luc whispers against his mouth, and Brandon cracks his eyes open with a sleepy smile. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s about five minutes before his alarm is set to go off, so he preemptively turns it off and yanks at the front of Luc’s shirt.

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“C’mere,” he says, opening the covers for Luc, who toes off his shoes and slides in next to Brandon.

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“I was gonna ask if that was okay - I mean, me kissing you to wake you up? - but, uh, it seems like - ”

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“Shh, you talk too much,” Brandon murmurs, still half-asleep, cupping Luc’s jaw and pulling him in for another kiss.

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They make out lazily in bed, and Brandon lets the kissing slowly drag him into wakefulness. It’s sort of the perfect alarm clock, he thinks, except that he’s dangerously undressed compared to Luc. PL’s in a long-sleeved shirt and joggers, and Brandon’s just in a thin white undershirt - currently tangled up around his chest - and boxers, nothing else. He had morning wood even _before_ Luc crawled into bed, and the kissing has done nothing to tame it, and it’s pressed very obviously against Luc’s leg.

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“Do you, uh,” Luc licks his lips, shoots his eyes downward and then back up. “I can help…”

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“Naw, it’s okay,” Brandon says, with maybe more willpower than he’s ever had in his life. “Just this.”

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“Are you sure?”

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_Fuck no._ “Yeah.”

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“D’you want me to make you a shake?”

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“Sounds great,” he says, and Luc smiles sweetly and gives him another quick kiss before he hops out of bed and disappears into the hallway. Brandon deliberately does _not_ jerk off, just grabs his phone and browses the news and other unsexy things for a few minutes until he’s soft enough to go take a piss and not tent through his boxers. He makes sure to throw on sweats and a hoodie, shapeless enough to hide any lingering hardness, before shuffling out to the kitchen. Luc laughs when he sees him and hands over a protein shake; it’s thick, just the way he likes it. “Is that what you’re going to the rink in?”

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“What, you don’t think it’s hot?”

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“I dare you to wear that to the rink this morning,” Luc says. Like every NHL team, they have a dress code for games, but it’s more laid back for morning meetings and skates. It’s still generally expected you don’t look sloppy, and Brandon likes to look stylish anyway, so something like this is not usually his go-to look. Still, every veteran occasionally gets away with dragging themselves to the rink a few minutes before morning meetings, looking like they just rolled out of bed.

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“What’ll you give me if I do?”

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Luc immediately looks intrigued, one of his impish little smiles curling at his mouth. “Oh, I think we can figure something out.”

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It’s a statement dripping with sex, even though Brandon just told Luc they can’t do that, and he’s got half a mind to reiterate their new rules. Instead, he says, “You’d make it worth my while?”

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“Uh huh.”

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“You’re on.”

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~~~~~

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He and Luc drive separate cars to the rink; PL’s meeting with the team nutritionists to talk about keeping his weight up in the season anyway, so Brandon heads into the rink kitchen to make oatmeal. Zach’s in there already, staring at the toaster, a pack of hearty wheat bread next to him. “Sup,” he says, not seeming to register Brandon’s clothes, but that’s not a surprise. Z is surprisingly clueless about anything but hockey most days.

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He’s about halfway through breakfast when foot traffic picks up as morning meetings get closer. “What the _fuck,”_ Nick laughs as he spots Brandon from the doorway. “Did you turn straight or something?”

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“I wish.”

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“Hey now,” Nick scolds gently, and Brandon resists rolling his eyes at Fliggy’s father-figure protectiveness of his self-esteem. “I just mean you’re not your usual stylish self today.”

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“I’m in the process of winning a bet,” he says, and across the room David Savard glances up sharply from the fruit bowl he’s making himself, then back down.

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Nick makes a harumph. “I’d win a bet to wear comfy clothes to practice,” he says. “Nobody ever bets me _that._ Z, you wanna bet me that?”

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“Huh?” Zach jerks his head up, looking confused, and Brandon laughs. Nick does, too.

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“Nevermind, man.”

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Brandon joins them for team meetings, and his teammates whoop and cheer when they hear about his planned return date against the Coyotes. “This means you’re going on the Vegas road trip,” Cam hisses in his ear, excited. A quick glance at Cam tells Brandon that the shrimp has _something_ planned for him, which - he’s not sure if that’s good or bad - but either way, he can’t fucking wait to get back out with the boys. He’s missed them so much. Even the pre-game meeting, filled with information and instructions he doesn’t really need, fills him with a sort of anticipatory joy. Soon, so soon, he’ll be back here for real.

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“Well, you win,” Luc bumps his shoulder into Brandon as the meeting adjourns. “It was worth it for that look Torts gave you.”

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Brandon had received one of Tortorella’s patented _are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now_ looks when he’d walked in wearing the sweatpants combo, but he hadn’t said a word, respecting the custom of veterans being able to have an occasional rough morning. Torts is nothing if not traditional. “You decide what I win yet?” he asks.

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“Still thinking about it,” Luc winks, actually winks. “Hey look, my hip’s been really tight, I’m gonna go roll and stretch it out and then I gotta pack and get in my nap. So I won’t really see you till tonight. But I’ll bring my suitcase and come home with you after the game, and we can leave from your place in the morning. Sound good?”

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“Sounds great.” He watches Luc go - alright, maybe he watches Luc’s _ass_ go - and then somebody nudges his arm. Brandon expects Nick, or Cam, maybe Boone, but it’s none of them.

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Savard is standing there, expression carefully neutral. “Can we talk,” he says flatly, not really a question.

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“Sure, Savy,” Brandon says, flashing what he hopes is a reassuring smile as his stomach suddenly churns dangerously. He and Savard have never really been the type to _just chat._

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Brandon follows him into an empty trainer’s room and Savy shuts the door, and oh, it’s gonna be _this_ kind of talk. Okay then. Now that they’re alone, though, David doesn’t quite seem to know how to start. Finally, he sighs and says, “Well Dubi, you can probably tell I’ve been uncomfortable about this whole thing.”

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Brandon shrugs, trying not to look sour. At least Savy’s talking about it. “Look, I know me coming out was a shock, and not everyone grew up with gay people or are comfortable with - “

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“Wait,” Savy blurts out, blinking rapidly. “Fuck. Wait. You think I’m uncomfortable about you being _gay?_ Dubi, I don’t give a flying fuck about that. You could come in here dressed in drag and make out with Neil Patrick Harris in front of me and I wouldn’t give a shit. _Fuck,_ you think I was weird about that?”

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“Yeah?”

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Savy’s upset now, running his hand down his face. “No. No it ain’t fuckin’ that, and I’m sorry you thought that it was. What I’m _weird_ about is the fact that you’re fucking my billet. Do you know that it’s about the same age different between you and PL, as between PL and _my daughter?_ She’s five, Dubi.”

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“Hold on now, I’m not fucking him,” Brandon protests, although his mind recoils at the age gap comparison Savy’s just made. “We’re not dating or fucking, okay? And yeah, we were, but not anymore.”

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Savy snorts. “Oh, okay. You’re just taking your platonic friend to a sweet cozy little getaway in Turks for a couple days? To what, hang out and play video games and swim and definitely not screw? PL showed me where you were staying. Val and I are thinking of going somewhere similar for our honeymoon. Our _honeymoon.”_ He draws that last word out for emphasis. “But yeah, totally just friends.”

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Saader’s words come back to him, _you don’t tell anyone about this vacation_ and well, so much for that. “I swear we haven’t been intimate since the team told us we couldn’t be together, man.”

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“Okay, but like...you’re gonna break his fucking heart, Dubi.” Savy sighs. _“Again._ He lives with me, man. He was a fucking wreck for weeks, okay, and just...you gotta fucking be careful, and be real upfront about where he stands with you. Because so help me god if you lead him on and make him think maybe there’s a chance and then…I can’t see him go through it all again. He’s nineteen years old. He doesn’t need to be moping around my basement listening to terrible breakup Spotify playlists again, okay? _Goddamn_ that doesn’t need to fucking happen again, you got me?”

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“Loud and clear, Savy.”

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David claps him on the shoulder. “I know it sucks to date, in your shoes,” he says. “But my advice is that you find a nice guy that you like and that likes you and you stop leading Luc on, or whatever the hell it is you’re doing.”

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Brandon forces a smile, which immediately drops off to a snarl as Savy turns to walk away. Maybe it’s just that easy for straight boys, but it’s different for him and Luc. For all his prattle about living with PL, he sure doesn’t seem to get that. It’s not like Brandon can just text a nearby hookup or friends-with-benefit situation and see if maybe they wanna get together - 

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Of course, just as he’s thinking that, his phone rattles with an unfamiliar number, a text which says _So right after your bye week...Big D is coming to town if you know what I mean._

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Brandon squints, frowning at the message. A quick glance at his schedule shows him that Dallas will be in town, and yeah they’re nicknamed the ‘Big D’ but that’s an unmistakable double entendre if Brandon’s ever heard one. _who tf is this???_

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He gets a picture in response, and he has to pick his jaw up from the floor. It’s Tyler Seguin, shirtless, giving the most unmistakable slutty come-on face he’s ever seen. He is all at once shocked and yet not surprised in the least that Tyler Seguin is gay. What’s much _more_ surprising is that Seguin seems to be hitting on him, not concerned at all that his secret might get out. _r u saying what i think ur saying?_

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_Don’t fall in love with me or nothin,_ Tyler texts back, _But if your looking for a fun night and your discreet we can have a good time. We’ll be in on the 17th._

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The 17th is the day he and Luc get back from their vacation, early as hell that morning, so the schedule works out. Tyler is absolutely Brandon’s type, reminds him a lot of PL, lanky and lean and effortlessly hot, and he’d be a fucking idiot to turn this down. Still, it feels weird, like he’s cheating on Luc; but he has to remind himself that he and Luc aren’t dating. There’s nothing to cheat on. _ill think about it,_ he sends off.

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A couple minutes later there’s a dick pic on his screen. No face, and carefully angled to hide the tattoos as best he can, but definitely his dick. It’s an awfully nice looking dick, too. _Just sayin,_ Tyler sends.

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_convincing. fine the 17th. ill send you my address_

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_Looking forward to it baby._

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Brandon lets out a shaky breath, slips out of the trainer’s room. Holy shit, he just set up a hookup with _Tyler fucking Seguin._ He should be ecstatic, because Seguin is way out of his league if he’s being honest, but there’s this nagging voice, this weird guilt roiling his stomach that he can’t shake. Hell, he’s not even sure whether he wants to show Luc the dick pic - any good gay buddy totally would, right? - and yet…

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He shakes his head. No, he needs to stop being weird. He and Luc are _friends_ and as a fellow gay man and _friend,_ Luc will definitely be interested in hearing all about this.

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Probably. Maybe.

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	32. Chapter 32

It’s an ugly game at home, 5-2 loss against the Canucks, and Brandon can tell that Luc is unhappy with his performance. He pouts the whole time they’re headed home and getting ready to sleep, so Brandon tackles him onto the bed and playfully kisses him, light smacks all over his mouth and nose and cheeks until Luc finally smiles and laughs. PL tries to deepen the kiss, but Brandon playfully swats at him, reminds him their flight is fuck-o-clock early and they gotta get some rest.

It’s a long travel day with lots of coffee, but at least their second flight - the one to Turks - is in first class. Brandon watches Luc sleep, covered in the blanket that first class provides, the big cushy seat reclined until it’s nearly horizontal. There’s a beauty in his tranquility, and Brandon’s heart aches with it. He wants _more,_ wants all of Luc.

They arrive in the late afternoon to their villa, and they’re both tired, but Luc perks right back up when he sees the place. “Holy shit. Brandon, _holy shit,”_ he squeals, giddy with their private beach and the size of the house. “This place is amazing. Let’s go swimming!”

They head inside to change, into the master bedroom which is big and airy, with fresh sea breeze and the sounds of the ocean. It’s fucking _romantic,_ and Brandon’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. They shuck their travel clothes and get into swim trunks, and Luc blatantly stares while Brandon’s naked, but doesn’t make a move. The most he does is grab Brandon’s hand as they head down to the ocean.

The beach is beautiful and sunny, such a difference from the stark cold of Columbus. They lather sunscreen on themselves before Luc snags the tube from Brandon’s hand. “I can get your back,” he says with a little smile. “If you get mine.”

“Deal.”

The sunscreen is a little cold, but Luc’s hands are big and warm as they press the lotion into Brandon’s back. There’s a sudden puff of hot air against his neck as Luc nuzzles into his hairline, murmuring French, and Brandon shivers at the touch. “What did you say?” he asks.

“I said I love the view,” Luc says, kissing the top of his spine before rubbing sunscreen there. “Y’know, the ocean, the palm trees, the sky. You.”

“Flattery, huh,” Brandon smirks, grabbing the sunscreen and switching positions.

“Yeah, is it working?”

“What, the flattery? Well I guess that depends on what you want.” Brandon’s hands splay over the sharp cut of Luc’s hips, the well-muscled definition of his back, and not for the first time, he can’t quite believe that a man that looks like Luc wants _him_. He takes his time working the white lotion into Luc’s skin, watches it disappear into his broad shoulders under his working fingers.

Luc lets out a long breath between his teeth. “There’s a lot that I want,” he says quietly. “But we can talk about that later. Am I good on sunscreen?”

“Think so,” Brandon says, capping the tube, trying to look nonchalant even though he’s burning with curiosity at Luc’s words. When he glances up, Luc’s up in his face with an impish grin, and then he puts a shoulder into Brandon’s side and gently tackles him to the beach. “Hey,” Brandon yelps as he gets upended into the soft sand. Luc ends up on top of him, giggling, and they play wrestle until they’re both panting, looking like sugar cookies with the white granules sticking to them.

Brandon gets his licks in, but he still ends up under Luc, pinned by his shoulders to the warm sand. “No fair,” he gasps out, trying to get his breath back. “You’re younger, taller, _and_ heavier.”

“I never said I played fair,” Luc growls, scrambling to his feet and making a dash for the ocean. “Race you!”

“Fuck off,” Brandon laughs, giving him the finger, not even on his feet yet. When he finally wades into the water - the temperature is perfect - Luc sweeps him up, using the buoyancy of the water to carry Brandon in his arms. Brandon thinks about struggling, starting another play-wrestling match, but instead he relaxes, lets Luc hold him. It’s a weird feeling, being carried, but he also finds himself kind of liking it. With so many years of pretending to enjoy women, he’s sick to death of tiny and petite things pressed intimately against his body. He’s gay; he wants something strong, firm, masculine. Luc is all that and more.

Later that night, they end up ordering room service from the nearby resort that owns the villas, and dinner is delivered an hour later. They set up the food outside, on a table with torches to ward off bugs and provide light, and he and Luc eat together under the stars. “Thanks for the invite,” Luc says, reaching over the table and grabbing Brandon’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “This is amazing.”

“Couldn’t think of anyone I’d want to come with more than you,” Brandon says, and that’s the truth.

Luc smiles, a little bashful, at the proclamation. “Brandon, I was thinking about us. Here, together. I know we can’t be together normally, but...but that’s Columbus. We’re not in Columbus, we’re in paradise, and I was thinking maybe, uh, just for these few days, we could, you know, be a couple? Like, think of it as practice, right? For when we do get boyfriends. We never really got to go on a date like this, after all. Just for this vacation, though. Seriously.”

“Hmm,” Brandon grunts, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the table. He shouldn’t - _they_ shouldn’t, but - he thinks back to Luc sleeping, looking unfairly handsome in his slumber, thinks back to the impressive muscles glistening with sunscreen under his hands. He thinks back and he _wants._ “Okay, but no sex,” he says.

“But everything else…?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I dunno,” Brandon groans. Fuck, they really, _really_ shouldn’t. “Look, it’s a big decision. Why don’t we sleep on it?”

Luc looks disappointed, but like he’s trying to hide it. “Okay,” he says. “I’m tired anyway. Long day.”

“Yeah, we actually have to wake up bright and early tomorrow. I set up a snorkeling trip for us.”

Luc chuckles, running his fingers through his hair. “B, you’re too much.”

It’s only just after dinner, maybe 9p local time, but it _has_ been a long day and they’re both tired. Brandon opts to crack the window; it lets in a bit of heat, but the sound of the ocean lapping on the shore is soothing. Luc’s immediately handsy when they slide into bed, mouth bumping off Brandon’s chin in the dark until they find each other, kissing long and slow. “Didn’t I just say we couldn’t sleep in too much? So we gotta go to bed?” Brandon chides, but it has no bite behind it.

“Sorry,” Luc murmurs, although he doesn’t really sound apologetic at all. “I just want to show my appreciation somehow. You set the bar high, you know, for this future boyfriend of mine, with all this taking care of me. Whoever _you_ end up with is a lucky guy.”

“Uh, yeah.” He doesn’t want to get into that, doesn’t want to explain to Luc that dating isn’t in the cards for him until at least retirement. This is all he’s got for now, and he’s going to make the most out of it.

“But I’ve got you, until that happens. Don’t I?”

“You do,” Brandon agrees, kissing him again.

~~~~~

The sky is just beginning to lighten when the alarm goes off. Brandon didn’t need to set it for _this_ early, but he suspects they’ll take a long time to get up and get going. “Morning,” he sighs, stretching and squirming to get his brain in gear.

Luc yawns and shifts and then his hard dick is pressed right to Brandon’s thigh, and based off his smirk he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Morning to you,” he says, and then his hand _just so happens_ to fall between Brandon’s legs, where his cock - half-hard from morning wood - quickly and suddenly pops to full interest. Luc keeps his palm there, a heavy warm weight. He keeps it still, but there’s promise behind it.

It’s not quite playing fair, he’ll realize later, although Luc did tell him earlier that he doesn’t always do that. Right now, though, his only thought is that there’s a hot young man in his bed with his hand on Brandon’s dick. “Oh c’mon,” he groans softly.

“C’mon what?” Luc digs in his palm just a little, drawing a gasp from Brandon. “You want me to take care of you?”

“Uh - um - well, uh - why don’t you take care of yourself and lemme watch,” Brandon says, because maybe if they just jerk _themselves_ off instead of each other, it won’t be so bad, won’t be as wrong.

“You wanna jerk off together?” Luc asks, and he sounds somehow both excited and maybe a touch disappointed.

“Yeah, here, up here.” Brandon maneuvers Luc so the younger man is straddling his thighs. “Yeah, right there.”

Luc laughs, the wicked gleam back in his eye. “Oh, you want a _show,”_ he says. “Well then. Do we have time?”

Brandon doesn’t even glance at the clock. “We have time.”

“Mm-hm.” Luc is wearing these snug navy colored briefs that do nothing to hide the thick curve of his dick, straining against the fabric. “You see how hard you make me?”

“I _wanna_ see.”

Luc grins, easing his briefs down until they’re hanging on his hips, dick springing free, bobbing heavily. Brandon has to bite back a groan when he sees it; it’s been so long since they’ve done something like this, and he’s thought about it often. Luc is so different from that shy tentative boy at the beginning of the season at the lake house, when he was frantic as he touched himself, out of control. Here he’s confident, a little flirtier, a lot more aggressive. He still stares at Brandon like he wants to wreck him, though.

“Stroke it,” Brandon growls, not enough brain cells to be embarrassed that his voice cracks at the order. “C’mon, Luc, stroke that big dick for me.”

Luc mutters a French curse as he takes himself in hand, long slow pulls as he stares down at Brandon. “You too,” he says. “Let’s get off together.”

“Yeah,” Brandon huffs, unbuttoning the slit in his boxers with trembling hands, pulling himself out. Luc makes this quiet approving sigh as Brandon starts stroking himself, and he has to pause for a second, too afraid that he’s going to come right there and then. Eventually they fall into a similar rhythm, and Brandon curls his free hand around Luc’s neck, pulls him down for a kiss.

Luc starts to make those noises that Brandon remembers so well, the soft little grunts he makes when he gets close, and Brandon pulls his mouth away to glance down between them. “I know you’re close,” he says, their knuckles brushing as they jerk themselves off; Luc’s hand is going faster and faster. “C’mon, lemme see. You gonna come all over me?”

“Oh fuck, _yes,”_ Luc gasps, and then he’s coming, splattering all over Brandon’s bare stomach. His mouth is right on Brandon’s as soon as he recovers, and it takes Brandon another minute, but he comes too, whimpering into Luc’s mouth and ruining his boxers.

The snorkel trip says to arrive at 8:45a. He and Luc stumble up at 8:56a and the tour operator is grumpy about it, but they’re allowed onto the boat, and they have an amazing time in the crystal clear waters. At one point, Luc swims close, tugs him towards a beautiful reef, and they float together in the water, staring at the scenery through their goggles, fingertips curled tight together.

~~~~~

Brandon finally gets his hot tub time that evening. Luc’s already tipsy, drunk off some island beer that is absolute garbage but is cheap and does the job well, and his whole body is dunked in the bubbles from chin-down. His silly sated grin is visible just above the rolling water. “Man, I needed this.”

“You never realize how exhausting the season is until you stop for a few days, huh?” Brandon’s tired as well, even though he hasn’t been playing. Mostly, he’s tired of recovery, of being out, of surgeries and soft foods. Hopefully that’s all behind him now. He snags one of the shitty beers and climbs into the hot tub, across from Luc, who pouts.

“All the way over there?”

Brandon laughs, shuffling over to sit next to Luc. “If you insist.”

“I do.” Luc wraps a big arm around Brandon’s shoulders; Luc tastes like beer when they kiss. They sit in companionable silence for awhile, listening to Luc’s Spotify playlist on the little portable speaker he brought. Brandon thinks about another hot tub, from another time, watching Cam through the bubbles, wanting to do this exact same thing.

“This is nice,” Brandon says, to Luc’s grunt of agreement. “This is, uh, sort of all I ever wanted.”

“Hmm?”

Brandon’s suddenly struck with fear that he’s said too much, and he glances away. “I just mean, uh. You know, being on vacation, in a hot tub, pressed up next to a guy I like and who likes me back. I’ve never had that before. And I don’t know when I’ll get it again.”

“Hey.” There’s a gentle hand on Brandon’s chin, tilting his gaze back to Luc’s, who’s softly smiling. “Don’t. We’re both going to find someone, right? But until then, right here and now, we’re...temporary boyfriends. No thinking about some mystery future. I just want to think about you.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Brandon blurts out, _and that’s the problem,_ he manages to bite back. “I don’t know how I got this lucky, because you’re so hot, and you have an incredible body, and somehow with all that you’re not an asshole either, and then there’s _me - “_

Luc kisses him to shut him up, gently tugging Brandon onto his lap. Brandon sets down his beer and climbs there obligingly, needing to press chest-to-chest to Luc to keep himself on the little ledge in the hot tub. “You want to talk about hot,” Luc says softly, kissing down his jaw and neck; Brandon throws back his head, whimpering as Luc scrapes his teeth along his collarbone. “I think you’re _so_ fucking hot, B.”

“You’re crazy.”

“For you,” Luc says, and there’s a tiny part of Brandon’s brain that pings _danger,_ but then they’re kissing and they’re both hard _again_ and there’s no room in Brandon’s mind for anything else.

He jerks Luc off this time, in direct contrast to what he said earlier in the day, but he _has_ to get his hands on PL, can’t take it anymore. Luc ends up sitting on the edge of the hot tub so he’s not in the water, one hand gripping Brandon’s shoulder so tight that he knows he’ll wake up with finger marks the next day. Brandon remembers just how he likes it, the tightness of the grip and the speed, and he sticks his face close and lets Luc come all over his mouth and jaw, mashed through his beard.

Brandon tries his best to ward off Luc, because maybe it’s not so bad if _he_ doesn’t get off, but they only make it as far as the shower when his will crumbles with Luc pressing him up against the tiled wall. “Can I,” Luc whispers against his mouth, and it doesn’t really feel like a question. Luc has him pinned tight and Brandon’s putty in his hands and he couldn’t get away even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. The _yes_ is barely out of his mouth before Luc’s stroking him, and his handjobs are still just a little too slow and soft like they were before, but Brandon’s so turned on he comes anyway, dripping down over Luc’s clenched fist. Brandon wants to turn boneless, slump down the wall, but Luc holds him tight and kisses him until his legs feel a little less like jelly.

Later, they’re in bed, intimately curled in each other’s arms and messing around on their phones. Someone keeps sending Luc messages which he giggles at, and Brandon tries not to be jealous because that’s ridiculous and he doesn’t have any right to be. “Hey, I wanna show you something,” Brandon says, gently elbowing Luc in the side.

“Hm?”

“Look.” He gets to the picture of Seguin’s dick, passes over his phone, and Luc’s eyebrows raise high.

“Who’s this?”

“Tyler Seguin, if you can believe it.”

Luc explodes into shocked laughter. _“What?_ How did you get it?”

“He sent it to me. Along with this.” Brandon flips to Seguin’s shirtless selfie, and Luc’s laughter quiets down a little as he studies the photo.

“Why would he send this to you?”

“Guess they’ll be in town right after our bye week. He asked if I wanted to hook up.”

Now Luc’s face is carefully neutral, and Brandon gets the idea that he’s - angry? Sad? Something not good, although Luc’s been talking all week about being _temporary_ boyfriends, so he doesn’t have any right to get jealous, either. “Wow,” he says. “So are you gonna?”

“Thinking about it. You think I should?”

Luc’s quiet a long time, eyes sweeping down Tyler’s shirtless chest again. “Just a hookup?” he finally asks.

“Oh yeah. In fact, he very specifically said not to get attached.”

Brandon thinks he sees Luc’s jaw twitch, but he plasters on a smile. “I mean he’s not my type, but you do you. I’d definitely use protection though. That guy seems like a walking STD.”

That’s not very fair, Brandon wants to say, but then why is he defending Seguin anyway? He doesn’t know a damn thing about Tyler. “Thanks for your concern about my dick. I got it under control. Protection for sure.”

“Good,” Luc says, and turns back to his phone.

They keep cuddling, but when it’s time for lights-out, Luc shifts onto his own pillow, not touching Brandon anymore. He says he’s too warm, but Brandon’s not quite convinced.


	33. Chapter 33

Whatever Luc’s problem was last night, he seems to forget about it in the morning. Brandon wakes up naked - which, he definitely didn’t fall asleep naked, so Luc must have somehow wiggled his boxers off - and PL is on top of him, pinning his wrists to the bed and watching him hungrily. “You want a fight?” Brandon asks, testing Luc’s grip on him. “You want me to struggle? That what you’re into?”

Luc grins. “No, but you know I’d win,” he says, and Brandon opens his mouth to retort but then Luc grinds down slow, dragging his dick along Brandon’s, and nothing comes out but a moan. They make out and rut against each other like teenagers until Luc comes in jerky little thrusts, all over Brandon’s stomach, and Dubi follows a minute later.

They call for breakfast after cleaning each other up, and Brandon savors being able to drink coffee with the warm ocean breeze in his hair, his feet tangled around Luc’s under the table. “I could retire here,” he sighs.

“Don’t talk about retirement yet,” Luc chides gently.

“Hey, you never know. I’m on the wrong side of 30 now. One bad injury, like…” he waves at his face, indicating his eye. “I got lucky. Might not get lucky again.”

Luc’s quiet for a long moment, sipping on a smoothie and staring at the ocean. “Hypothetically, if your career ended in a year, what would you do? Would you stay in Columbus?”

“I told you, I’d retire down here,” Brandon jokes, but Luc frowns. “What, are you serious? Shit, I don’t know. I’d stay in Columbus for awhile, I guess. Assess my options. Maybe get into coaching or something. Why?”

“I’m just thinking. Realistically, you’ve got maybe four, five, six years left if everything goes perfect? So, uh, you could stay in Columbus. With me. When you’re retired - “

“What if I coach? Join the Jackets org, what then?” Luc doesn’t say anything, but his mouth goes tight-lipped and thin, and Brandon sighs. “Don’t talk about _waiting_ for me anyway. You’re young, you’re hot, you’re not waiting five years for my old ass to be out of the league. That’s dumb.”

“I’m just saying, if I _haven’t_ found anyone by then - “

“You really think you’re still gonna be into me in five years?”

“Yes,” Luc says with conviction, the confidence of naivety and youth.

“What makes you think I’ll be into _you_ in five years?”

That’s where Luc falters, frowning. “It’s just a thought,” he says. “I know you’re not waiting for me.” _And I’m not waiting for you_ , Brandon waits for him to say, but Luc skips over that. “Just, y’know, a contingency plan.”

Brandon snorts. “Can you imagine, me retired and coming to your games as a WAG? Maybe I should get a bedazzled jacket like Savy’s wife has,” he says, and Luc dissolves into laughter. It’s true; David’s wife has a jeans jacket she made herself, a sparkling _SAVARD_ in glitter on the back. It’s fucking hideous.

“You’d be the hottest WAG there,” Luc says, and Brandon laughs, throwing a piece of his half-eaten toast towards Luc.

_Contingency plan._ On one hand, it’s Luc’s dumbest idea yet. Brandon doesn’t want Luc to wait for him, and hell if he wants to wait four or five years to be in a relationship. Although that might just happen anyway; he can’t envision a world where he’s an active NHL player with a boyfriend. On the other hand, it makes him feel a little more grounded, a little more relaxed. If he’s still single, and Luc’s still single, and Brandon’s not his teammate anymore…

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ it could work.

But it won’t happen. Luc is still so young, and hot as fuck, and probably what will happen is he’ll meet some cute boys over the summer and get over Brandon real quick when he sees what guys his age have to offer. Still, one of Brandon’s biggest fears - although he won’t even admit it to himself, really - is being alone forever, so a contingency plan, as fucking dumb and ill-advised as it is, is something intriguing.

“I have a surprise for you,” Luc says, as they’re getting ready to swim, working sunscreen into their skin. “Um, just a little return favor, for this amazing vacation.”

“What’s that?”

“The All Star Break. You told me you weren’t doing anything. Is that still true?”

Brandon glances up, eyebrows raised. When he and Luc get back home from bye week, the Jackets have a few games - and Brandon should _finally_ get back onto the ice - and then there’s four days off for the All Star game. He thought about going home, back to Alaska for a day or two, but instead he figured he’d stay in Columbus and golf with some buddies instead. “Some tentative golf plans, but nothing really.”

“How do you feel about canceling those golf plans and coming up to Quebec?”

“For…?” Brandon narrows his eyes; if Luc even breathes a word about _meeting his family…_ “You know it’s fucking cold up there, right? It’s winter.”

“I know, I know,” Luc says. “That’s part of the appeal though. There are these great little winter chalets I know of near a ski resort. My contract restricts me from skiing, I assume yours does too, but we can snowshoe and snowmobile and cuddle by the fire? You told me all this was your dream.” Luc gestures around, nods at the hot tub. “A guy you’re into, pressed up close in the hot tub. Well, me, I always thought about being cuddled up next to the fire, sharing a hot drink.”

Luc is talking about a romantic getaway in the woods and the indecision strikes him so hard that his hands stop working as he stares into the sand. Brandon _should_ tell Luc to forget about it, that it’s crossing a line too far. He really, definitely should.

“C’mon,” Luc says, softly. “We’re just friends and teammates in Columbus, right? And if we go out of town where we’re by ourselves and no one knows us and we’re just _temporarily_ more than friends, for just a few days, who does that hurt? Nobody will know.”

“Mmm,” Brandon grunts, the rational side of his brain still warring with his emotional side.

“Tell you what,” Luc says. “If we get home and we find that we can’t keep this separate when we’re in Columbus, that we’re becoming too inappropriate, we just cancel the trip. Easy as that. It’s practice, eh? Like neither of us have really dated before, so...y’know.”

“Savy’s getting suspicious. He already thinks we’re banging down here.”

“Which we’re _not,”_ Luc reminds him. “I’ll tell Savy I’m going back to see some buddies in Quebec. You’ll come up with an excuse. Doesn’t it sound nice, though? You, me, roaring fire, some wine…”

“Luc.”

“Say yes,” Luc pouts, sliding his fingers - still slick with sunscreen - into Brandon’s. “Please. If we can’t be together all the time, we at least deserve the occasional weekend. Nobody will know. I _promise.”_

Luc just looks so hopeful, and Brandon wants. They do deserve to be happy, don’t they? Even if it’s just the occasional weekend? “Okay,” he says, and Luc whoops and gathers him into his arms for a kiss.

“You’re the best,” he says, breathlessly excited. “I - “

Brandon can see Luc’s tongue on his upper teeth, the _L_ already formed in his mouth, and he wonders if Luc is going to bust out the ‘L’ word, ruin it all with a declaration of love. If he does that, Brandon will have to call it all off, he won’t have a choice. But his tongue drops quickly, enough that Brandon thinks perhaps he imagined the whole thing. “I'm so excited,” Luc says instead.

“Me too,” Brandon says, and lets Luc pull him towards the beach, their hands still clasped together.

~~~~~

They water ski that afternoon, or well - Luc does. Brandon gives it a try, promptly wipes out, decides he’s too damn old to learn and spends the rest of the afternoon drinking on the boat. He’s well and truly hammered when dinner time comes around, and even the food barely soaks up the liquor sloshing in his stomach.

That’s the excuse he’ll give himself later, after he wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and memories of Luc’s cock in his mouth, the bitter taste of come as he swallowed it all and then let Luc blow him too. The vague recollection of him teasing Luc about being a little slut, and Luc looking at him with these big pupil-blown puppy dog eyes and _begging_ him to fuck his throat and, shit, Brandon probably wouldn’t even have been able to resist that sober.

Luc’s still asleep, so he peels himself out of bed, feeling a touch guilty for kicking their relationship back up another notch from before when they were only using hands. He orders coffee and breakfast to be delivered and scrounges around for something to drink - only finding more beer - as he thinks about their discussion from yesterday. Contingency plans and temporary dating scenarios, and if they’re just vacation boyfriends, last night was all okay, he supposes. That’s what boyfriends do, they blow each other.

Still, sex seems like a step too far. He’s not going to do that, he resolves. But everything else…

Yeah, everything else is good.

Breakfast is delivered and being spread on the table as Luc stumbles onto the patio, yawning. “Thought I smelled food,” he mumbles sleepily, making an effort to smile politely at the villa attendants laying out their meal.

“You’re just in time,” Brandon says, reaching for his wallet before remembering these employees don’t accept tips. They politely bid them both good day and scurry off, and Brandon waits til they’re out of sight and then another extra few beats for good measure before stepping up and pulling Luc close in a kiss, short but fond. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’ to you too,” Luc beams at the kiss. “I had fun yesterday. And last night.”

“I bet you did,” Brandon says, patting Luc’s rump fondly. “Me too. Let’s eat, hmm?”

“What’re we doing today?” Luc makes a grab for the coffee, but Brandon swats him away to get the first cup because his head is still ferociously unhappy at him.

“Last full day in paradise,” he says with some regret. “Well, first up, I’m going sunbathing to try and sweat some of this fuckin’ beer out, _holy shit._ Later we’re jet skiing, and I _will_ kick your ass at that, unlike yesterday. And then tonight, hmm, I think I’m going to eat you out and then finger fuck you until you scream.”

Luc nearly drops the coffee, snapping his gaze up to Brandon. “You’re gonna fuck me?”

_“Finger_ fuck you,” he corrects quickly. “No sex, remember? But I’m pretty good with my hands. And I wanna be reminded of those noises you make when I get right on that good spot.” He takes a sip of the coffee: it’s hot, and strong, and he can feel himself relax into it. Brandon smirks over the cup at Luc. “Slut,” he says, with a wink.

“For you,” Luc grins.

After breakfast, Brandon naps in the sun for an hour or two, careful to turn over and reposition so as not to burn himself, and ends up with a nice bronze tan that most women would probably kill for. Despite them both having applied generous amounts of sunscreen throughout their vacation, Luc ends up red and sunburnt, the kind of ruddy flush up his chest and cheeks that Brandon usually only sees when he’s coaxing an orgasm out of him. “How are you so burned?” Brandon asks, kissing down the red patches as Luc hisses with the pain but doesn’t pull away.

They get him extra SPF for their jetski outing in the afternoon, and yeah, Brandon is actually good at this, really good. Growing up riding snowmobiles in Alaska was good training, and the jet ski handles pretty similarly. He rides circles around Luc, laughing and teasing him the whole time. “You’re gonna get it tonight, when we get back to the house,” Luc warns playfully, after Brandon splashes him with wake water.

“That a promise?”

“You know it.”

~~~~~

They finish the day with a candlelight dinner, holding hands, and it’s _such_ a cliche but Brandon fucking loves it, has never had the chance to do anything like this before. It’s going to suck to go back to Columbus and just be friends, but he’ll manage.

Brandon wants to get in the hot tub one more time, so they chat and drink some more while they soak in the bubbles. They both polish off a couple of beers and then Brandon ends up in Luc’s lap again, kissing him long and slow and filthy while Luc clutches his shoulders, warm water trickling down Brandon’s back from his dripping hands. “Why don’t you go shower,” Brandon murmurs against Luc’s mouth, grinding his hips down, drawing a whimper. “Clean up good for me down there, so I can eat you out.”

“Yes,” Luc whispers, and he wobbles a little bit getting out of the hot tub like he’s drunk. Drunk on sex and endorphins, if anything. Brandon drinks another beer while Luc’s showering, listening to the insects buzz in the darkness and the ocean gently crash its waves up on the beach, and for the first time _ever,_ Brandon thinks maybe retirement won’t be all bad. He’ll get this kind of stuff a lot more often, at least.

_Maybe with Luc?_ The thought comes unbidden. Preferably not with Luc, he should find someone closer to his own age and Brandon will find...someone. But they have a contingency plan now. So maybe…

He’s nearly finished with his beer when Luc appears in the doorway, naked, his cock half-hard and rising from a neatly trimmed bush. “Hey,” he purrs. “You wanna come check my work?”

“You do a good job for me?” Brandon abandons the rest of his drink, not even bothering with a towel as he hauls himself out of the hot tub and heads over towards Luc, dripping puddles as he goes. “Turn.”

Luc spins, and Brandon smacks his ass, a nice firm whack that leaves his palm stinging and Luc yipping in surprise and maybe a little pain. He drags his fingers down along Luc’s crack and raises his eyebrows at what he finds. “Did you shave down here?”

“Uh huh.” Luc hangs his head, peeking at him from between his spread legs, upside-down. “You like?”

“You _are_ a little slut, I knew it.” There’s a thought that flashes through Brandon’s mind, brief and unbidden, that Luc never did that when they were together before, so clearly this is learned behavior from somewhere...or someone. He tries to stifle down the inappropriate pang of jealousy and only mostly succeeds, and when he talks next his voice is a little gruffer than he’d meant. “I want you to get on the couch,” he growls. “Hands and knees, ass up. Wait for me to dry off, and I’ll be in soon. Any chance you brought lube?”

“Oh yeah.”

Of course he fucking did. Brandon didn’t want to, didn’t want to be remotely tempted by having anything sex-related in his bag. Luc, of course, doesn’t share that hesitation. “Get it first, and then meet me on the couch.”

“Yes _sir.”_ Luc’s saucy with the response, not submissive, throwing a smirk over his shoulder and disappearing into the house. It might be the fastest Brandon’s ever toweled off, sloppy and haphazard; his back is still damp when he throws down the towel, and only too late does he realize he missed a whole section of his thighs.

When he gets to the couch, there’s Luc, chest pressed to the couch and _presenting_ his ass to Brandon. It’s fucking obscene is what it is, and Brandon has to pause in the doorway, take a few deep breaths, remind himself - _convince_ himself - that he is not going to fuck this man tonight. His eyes fall on the lube, and the other object sitting there. “What in the absolute fuck,” he blurts. “Did you bring that?!”

It’s a dildo. Not a very realistic looking one - it’s purple, and gently curved with a base - but definitely a dildo.

“It, uhhh, ended up in my bag somehow,” Luc says, and he’s an absolute shit liar, and Brandon should bust his balls over it but right now he just wants to do something else to his balls.

“You are too fuckin’ much.”

“I want you to fuck me with it,” Luc whines into the couch, and oh, there it is. “I know we can’t fuck, but it’s a toy, so I figured…”

“What, you don’t think my fingers will be enough? Your greedy little ass wants _more?_ You just assumed I’d be cool with it?”

“Brandon,” Luc says, with a distinct note of begging, and it’s getting too hard to resist. He drops to his knees in front of the couch, spreads Luc’s ass, and - after listening to his heavy breathing, his soft anticipatory whimpers for just a few moments longer - presses his mouth there and sucks. No teasing licks, no lead up, and it’s probably too much too soon, or maybe not enough because Luc shouts in French loud enough to wake the dead.

“You want me to stop?” Brandon pulls back a little, blowing on the hole. “Go slower?”

“No no no no…”

His little protests cut off to a moan when Brandon goes back down on him, licking long and wet, enough that a little saliva trickles down his soaked beard onto his Adam’s apple. Brandon loses track of time listening to the noises Luc makes, from the little French whispers to the moans that turn into his name, _Brandon, Dubi,_ he can’t get enough of those. He goes until Luc’s begging to get fucked, and he has to take a moment again, steady himself and take a few deep breaths to calm down. “Fuck me,” Luc groans, meeting Brandon’s eye, and there’s this desperate wanton look in his eyes and Brandon almost loses it there, nearly convinces himself that if they’ve already gone this far he might as well just finish it off.

He doesn’t know how, but he dregs up the strength to grab the dildo instead of his own dick. Luc’s ass is slick already with a mess of saliva, so Brandon strokes the toy with a generous amount of lube but doesn’t bother with Luc. He’s ready enough, and if he’s anything like Brandon, just a tiny bit of pain makes it all that much better anyway. “I’m ready, I’m ready,” he babbles before Brandon can even ask.

Brandon’s cock twitches as he watches Luc open up for the toy, watches the dildo disappear inside his body. Luc groans and buries his head in his arms, arching his back for it as Brandon gives it a few slow, experimental thrusts. “Fuck, forgot how good you take it,” he murmurs, obsessed with watching the little bumps get sucked in and out.

“Harder,” Luc says, voice muffled in his arms. “Please, please.”

He obliges as best he can, fucking Luc deep and hard with the dildo, and Luc’s shaking and panting and Brandon doesn’t feel too steady himself. He wants to yank this toy out, bury himself deep in Luc, take him, _claim_ him, come inside him. Instead, he gets a hand on Luc’s cock, stroking it in time with each thrust and it’s over quick, he recognizes the noises, feels Luc’s dick spasm in his hand as he comes.

“Stay there,” Brandon growls when Luc tries to sit up, one hand on Luc’s neck to keep him pinned to the couch, the other jerking himself off, fast and hard. He comes all over Luc’s ass, the base of the dildo striped with it, dripping down his thighs. _“Fuck.”_

Luc’s catching his breath, still panting into the fabric of the couch. “Holy shit,” he says softly. “Brandon.”

“You feel okay?” Brandon gently lets off his neck, petting down Luc’s back and flank. “Want me to take this out?” He presses against the dildo, and Luc shudders and nods.

He goes slow, gingerly as he pulls it out, and his libido wants to find the sight very interesting but he’s way too old for that. Luc collapses onto the couch, a mess of saliva and come and lube, and Brandon quickly gathers him in his arms, kissing his jaw and stroking his hair, sticking up in every direction. “Hey,” Brandon says gently, because Luc looks zonked out. “Hey, you okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Luc turns his head as Brandon goes to kiss his cheek, catching it on the mouth instead. “C’n you help me clean up?”

They shower again, Luc sitting on the little ledge of the shower as Brandon washes him gently, mindful of his sunburn and the sex. He’s already half-asleep by the time Brandon gets him toweled off and tucked into bed. “You’re the best,” Luc yawns, smiling fondly through half-slit eyes. “Thanks for helping.”

“No problem.”

“Brandon?”

“Hmm?”

“We’re good together, aren’t we?”

Brandon’s not sure how to answer that - _yes, but…_ \- so he sits there holding Luc for a long moment, thinking about his response. They are, they’re so good, but it can’t be. Not yet anyway. _Contingency plan._

He still hasn’t come up with a good answer when he realizes Luc is asleep, mouth parted, starting to snore.


	34. Chapter 34

Brandon wakes a very grumpy Luc up extremely early that next morning. “It’s not even six,” Luc hisses, eyes half-slit in sleep, but Brandon pokes him until he huffs and drags himself out of bed. “Where are we going?”

“I wanna show you something,” Brandon says. It’s their last day here - hell, not even a full day, they leave to go back to the States around noon - and the internet said there was one last thing any couple _has_ to do while they’re on the island. Not that they’re a real couple, but while they’re faking it on the island, Brandon figures he owes Luc the whole boyfriend experience.

Luc sees it the moment they step outside. The sun’s not up yet, but the sky is streaked brilliant colors, red and purple and orange with the impending sunrise. It’s beautiful. “Oh wow,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

“Worth getting up for?”

“Mmm,” Luc grunts, but it certainly sounds like an affirmative.

“Let’s go down to the beach,” Brandon says, grabbing a blanket. They end up in a secluded spot a bit back from the water, with a perfect view of the sky and ocean. Brandon spreads out the blanket and they sit together, toes stuck out in the sand; Luc wraps his arms around Brandon’s waist and tips his head onto Brandon’s shoulder as they watch the sky light up even more colorfully as the sun continues to rise.

“You, uh...you still thinking of hooking up with Seguin?” Luc asks quietly, after they’ve been sitting together in a comfortable silence for awhile.

“Yeah.” Brandon tilts his head so he can side-eye Luc, raising an eyebrow. “You jealous or something?”

Luc chews on his mouth for a long moment. “I shouldn’t be,” he says, finally. “But I am, a little. But you, uh, you should. Fuck Seguin, I mean. And tell me all about it. Is he a top or a bottom?”

“He actually didn’t say. Which usually means he’s okay with either and he’ll just go along with what the other guy wants. What do you think I should have him do?”

Luc makes a soft grunt - it sounds a little pained, to Brandon’s ears, like he’s making an effort in having this conversation but not enjoying it - and he’s silent again for a long while. “I dunno,” he says. “You fucking him feels like you’re claiming _him,_ but him fucking you feels like the opposite, like he’s claiming _you.”_

“You know it doesn’t work that way, Luc - “

“I know,” he says, sounding frustrated. “Don’t make me choose.”

“Hey.” Brandon pulls away a little bit, cups Luc’s jaw, forces Luc to look at him. “Maybe don’t think about Seguin right now, huh?”

Luc blinks once, twice, and then he’s clutching Brandon’s shoulders as he swoops in for a rough kiss. Brandon ends up on his back, pinned to the blanket, Luc grinding on top of him. It feels very possessive, which isn’t appropriate at all, but Luc’s dick is sliding against his and Luc’s tongue is in his mouth and he feels helpless in more than one way to think about protesting. They make out while the sun rises around them, and all the while there’s the constant steady drag of Luc’s dick between his legs.

“I wanna fuck your mouth,” Luc growls between kisses, and again it feels awfully possessive, and Brandon’s an idiot so he lets Luc drag him up to their beach house. He drops to his knees in the very first carpeted spot, the hallway leading to the bedrooms, lets Luc get a firm grip on his hair and opens his mouth. Luc doesn’t last very long, pulling back when he comes so Brandon can taste it, hot and bitter, and then trails his dick along Brandon’s jaw, the last dregs of it dripping down his chin.

“Jerk off for me,” Luc orders, and Brandon’s not usually into this whole being-ordered-around thing, but there’s this fire in Luc’s eyes he finds sexy as hell. He stays on his knees in the hallway, jerking himself off while Luc keeps his fingers tangled in his hair, keeps his head tilted back so Brandon has to stare into his eyes as he masturbates. “Let me see,” Luc says, and Brandon arches up into his orgasm, shooting wet spots onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” Brandon groans, partially because the orgasm was shockingly good, and partly because his knees are starting to scream at him. Luc helps him off the floor, pins him against the wall and kisses him, nipping at his lower lip.

“What’s gotten into you?” Brandon asks, trying to catch his breath, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

Luc licks his lips, smiles. “Nothing,” he says, but the look in his eyes says _mine_ as he stares at Brandon. Brandon doesn’t say anything, because verbalizing it will make it real, and as it stands he can just ignore it, so he does.

They take one last quick swim and a shower before they have to catch their plane, and then they spend the night in New York City. Brandon takes him out to his favorite restaurant, this little hole in the wall, and thank God New Yorkers are too damn cool to bother celebrities; quite honestly, he and Luc barely register as such in the city anymore, with him no longer being a Ranger. Brandon orders a bottle of wine before remembering that Luc can’t drink here in the States, so he downs the entire thing himself, and Luc shoves him up against their hotel room door the second it’s closed.

“I want you to fuck me,” Luc says, kissing at his jaw. “Before you fuck Seguin. Please. You remember how good we are. Remember fucking me with that dildo, how good I take it? I wanna take it for you.”

“Luc,” Brandon whines, head tilted back to the ceiling for Luc’s mouth. He’s drunk, but he still remembers that they shouldn’t do this. “Can’t. _Luc,_ fuck, oh fuck.”

“Aren’t we still boyfriends until we get back to Columbus? Please?”

Brandon still manages to shake his head; honestly, he’s not sure he could fuck anyone right now, even if he wanted to.

“So maybe I could fuck you, then?” Luc sucks along his Adam’s apple, causing him to moan.

Brandon huffs; this offer is far more tempting, because he _loves_ getting fucked when he’s drunk, just laying there like a big pillow princess and letting the other guy finger and fuck him into oblivion. Luc would definitely do all the work, and he wants, _oh_ does he want. But somehow, somewhere, there’s a little angry voice that makes him shake his head again. “Stop tryin’ t’take advan’age of me while m’drunk,” he says, and Luc immediately steps back like Brandon’s on fire.

“I - shit, that’s not - I’m sorry,” Luc mutters. “I wouldn’t - “

“S’okay,” Brandon sighs. “We c’n make out though…?”

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but Brandon thinks they do make out for a _long_ while, until he passes out. Luc doesn’t try anything; no blowjobs, not even a handjob, and he has coffee and an apology ready in the morning before their stupid-early flight back to Columbus.

“We just can’t,” Brandon says, head in his hands, trying to fend off the headache. “You know that.”

“I’m an asshole,” Luc says. “You were drunk. I shouldn’t have…”

Brandon shrugs, waving him off. Hungover is not the time to have any sort of discussion about the murkiness of consent while you’re drunk, especially because Brandon has both drunk-fucked and fucked drunk men plenty of times when he was younger. “Let’s go home,” he says. “Ready to be just teammates again?”

“Yeah,” Luc says. He does not sound convincing.

~~~~~

Brandon gets the text in the late afternoon, shortly after an extended nap, that the Dallas Stars’ plane has landed in Columbus. They’re going out to eat, and then Tyler can come over. He’s been sending suggestive messages throughout the day, including a link to a porn where the bottom is bent over a couch, the top yanking at his hair as he pounds away, the sound of slapping skin loud and obscene. _u like it rough??_ he texts Seguin, and gets a wink emoji in return and the response:

_I like it all baby._

Brandon’s not about to let Tyler fucking Seguin pull his hair and slap his ass and tell him to “take it like a slut” like in the video, so Seguin better be prepared to bottom if that’s what he wants. Still, Brandon cleans up and preps like he’s going to be taking it, because you just never know.

Seguin is fashionably late, and breezes into Brandon’s apartment when the door opens for him. “Hi. Service was terrible,” he says, by way of an apology, and then stops and looks around the room. “Cute place,” he says, in a way that makes Brandon think he’s actually saying _why is it so tiny_ , and he pushes down a spike of irritation.

“You want a drink?” he asks, waggling his half-drunk beer in Seguin’s direction.

Tyler shrugs, toeing off his shoes and taking off his coat. “Sure.”

To Seguin’s credit, he’s not picky about the beer, and Brandon finally gets a good look at him. He’s the picture of casualness for having just returned from what Brandon is quite sure was a very nice restaurant: black v-neck shirt, backwards baseball cap, dark jeans. He grins when he sees Brandon checking him out, the confident smirk of a man who’s gorgeous in absolutely anything and knows it. “You like what you see?” he asks.

“I don’t hate it,” Brandon says, dryly, taking another sip of his beer.

This obviously quirks Tyler’s interest; he’s probably not used to people _not_ fawning all over him. “It gets better with the shirt off,” he says. “Assuming you like tattoos.”

Brandon thinks immediately to Luc’s tattoos, pressing his mouth to the ink while Luc giggles. “They suit you,” Brandon says, and Tyler beams.

“Alright, let’s talk shop,” he says. “You’re like the butchest motherfucker I’ve ever seen. You gotta be a top, right?”

“I like either, if you can believe it,” Brandon says, and Tyler’s eyes bug out.

“Oh shit,” he hoots. “I never would have guessed. I mean we all love when a dude goes against stereotypes but let’s be honest, that never actually happens, right?”

Brandon takes a long swig of his beer; the fact that he is standing in his living room negotiating sex with _Tyler Seguin_ is sort of blowing his mind right now. “Well, if you’re wanting it like that porn you sent, with one of us bent over and begging for it as their ass gets slapped, it’s gonna be you on the bottom. I don’t beg.” That’s entirely, verifiably false - he’s begged plenty in his life, and especially with Luc, just this past week - but he’s not going to beg for Seguin. He can picture it now, the next time they play the Stars, tangling up with Tyler in the corner and Seguin snarling about him begging, chirping him with what should stay a secret. He gets the feeling he needs to be careful here.

Tyler laughs, a delighted hiccup. “There’s that Brandon Dubinsky I was expecting,” he says with a shark grin. “Of course you don’t beg, buddy. But I will, if you want. I’ll let you fuck me, if you promise to fuck me hard. Make me feel it tomorrow when I’m scoring against your team.”

Brandon drains his beer, sets it aside, nods at Tyler’s half-finished one. “Finish your beer,” he says.

“Fuck the beer,” Tyler says, discarding it on the coffee table and then he’s on Brandon in two large strides, fisting his hand into Brandon’s shirt as he goes for a kiss.

Tyler’s kiss is rough and biting, and he moans when Brandon gives it back just as good as he’s getting, teeth scraping over Tyler’s bottom lip. He is, of course, an amazing kisser: not too sloppy, just the right amount of tongue, good breath even with the beer. Nothing like Luc, who’s gotten better but is still more enthusiasm than technique.

Brandon needs to _stop_ thinking about Luc, so he nips at Tyler’s lip just to hear him whine. He grabs ahold of Tyler’s shirt and shoves, starting to walk; Tyler’s backwards, and he has to clutch at Brandon to stay upright as he stumbles along. Brandon goes until they reach a wall, and then pushes Tyler into it, reaching up and knocking off his ballcap. “This what you like?” he growls, pulling Tyler forward just to slam him against the wall again.

“I don’t hate it,” Tyler says, in a mockery of Brandon’s earlier words, but his gaze is dark and hooded and Brandon can tell he’s into it, likes being knocked around.

He keeps Tyler pinned to the wall as they kiss, feels Tyler melt under his grip as he lets his hands roam. Seguin’s abs are something that Brandon’s only ever dreamt about, and he drags his fingers along his stomach, feeling the bumps of his six-pack. “Take it off and see,” Tyler murmurs against his mouth.

“Did I say you could talk,” Brandon shoots back, because if Tyler wants him to be this big butch top he can fucking _do that,_ and sure enough Tyler huffs out a little moan and shakes his head.

He ends up taking off Tyler’s shirt anyway, yanking it up over his head and stepping back to look. Tyler quirks an eyebrow - _yeah?_ \- but Brandon’s not gonna give him the satisfaction of staring. “Pants,” he says dismissively, waving his hand.

Tyler pulls out a tiny tube of lube and a condom from his pocket, setting it in Brandon’s palm before starting on his pants. They’re practically painted on so he has to wiggle to get out of them, and Brandon pretends like he’s not interested, inspecting the lube and condom. “What a slut,” he says.

“If that’s what you call having a good time,” Tyler says, finally getting his pants off. He’s not wearing underwear; of course not. Seguin’s not packing anything to write home about, just about Brandon’s size - pretty average - but he’s neatly trimmed and Brandon’s pretty sure his ass is going to be shaved, as well.

“Did I say you could _talk,”_ Brandon says, and Tyler claps a hand to his mouth, over exaggerated.

“You’ll just have to spank me,” he purrs, voice muffled in his palm.

Brandon’s not into whips and chains or any of that shit, but he does appreciate a good spanking from time to time, and the idea of letting loose on Tyler Seguin’s ass is intriguing, to say the least. He yanks Tyler into his bedroom, shoves him in the direction of his bed, and it’s not rocket science what he’s asking; Seguin understands immediately, and ends up bent over the bed, grinning back at Brandon suggestively. “You want me to make you count?” Brandon asks, and Tyler shakes his head.

“Just give it to me until you think I’ve had enough. Don’t be a pussy, I wanna feel it afterwards, when you fuck me.”

Brandon snorts at the challenge. “Try not to cry,” he says smugly, keeping one hand on Tyler’s back and aiming with the other hand. Tyler’s ass isn’t exactly flat, but it’s certainly not the bubble that Crosby has, and even Luc’s is a little rounder. Still, it makes a satisfying _smack,_ spanking hard enough that his palm tingles.

“Yeah,” Tyler groans into the sheets.

Tyler’s ass pinks up fast under the spanking, and Brandon goes until he’s wiggling, shifting his weight from foot to foot, each new smack drawing a little whimper out of him. “You had enough?” Brandon asks, trailing two fingers down into Tyler’s crack and sure enough, he’s shaved neat and clean.

“Yeah, Dubinsky,” Tyler pants. “Knew you’d give it good. That’s why I asked you. You wanna fuck me?”

“You gonna make those noises when I fuck you?”

“God yes,” Tyler says, so Brandon starts stripping out of his clothes. His shirt gets tangled up in his head, and he feels a moment of awkwardness, is struck by how ridiculous this whole thing is. He feels like he’s acting some part of this big macho jerk, exactly like he portrays himself on the ice, yapping insults and swaggering confidence and pushing people around, but...that isn’t who he is, not really. Not off the ice. But that’s who Tyler wants him to be, and it’s not like he’s having a _bad_ time, so he shovels all his feelings away and turns back towards Tyler.

Tyler gives a little whistle at the sight of him naked, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes, because it’s not like he’s got a massive dick or a jacked body, nothing special enough for a wolf-whistle from Tyler Seguin at least. “Shut up,” he gruffs at Seguin. “You’re gonna suck my cock while I get you ready.”

“Absolutely,” Tyler says, licking his lips.

Brandon takes the bottom, laying on the bed while Tyler angles opposite on top of him in a 69 position. It’s not particularly easy to concentrate on opening him up while Tyler’s got his _very_ talented mouth on Brandon’s dick, so he twists his fingers roughly against Tyler’s prostate, hoping to distract him. Sure enough, his mouth falls open and he stops sucking. “Yeah,” he groans. “More - fuck - Dubinsky, more.”

“Greedy,” Brandon says, twisting his fingers again and is rewarded with another whimper. “I want you to ride me first. Then maybe, _maybe_ if you’re good, I’ll pound you like you want.”

Tyler finds the condom at the end of the bed and nearly throws it in Brandon’s direction, waiting impatiently while Brandon rolls it on, slicks himself up. He’s on top of Brandon as soon as the condom snaps into place, and Brandon helps position himself at Tyler’s entrance.

“Shit,” Brandon curses softly as Tyler slides down, slowly, _slowly,_ until he’s fully seated. It’s been awhile since he’s had actual penetrative sex, and the way Tyler rolls his hips with the precision of a man well-acquainted with his own body… “Shit,” he says again, and Tyler smirks and starts moving in earnest.

He grinds slow, too slow to get either of them off, obviously aiming to tease Brandon until he snaps and flips them over and fucks him into oblivion. “I could do this all fuckin’ day,” Tyler moans, throwing his head back to the ceiling with a little slutty moan. “God, yeah.”

Brandon does feel his tenuous grasp on control slipping, but he gets a good look at Tyler first, pale skin and dark tattoos, thick cords of muscles in his thighs as he rocks, mouth half-open in what’s probably manufactured ecstasy but goddamn does he look _good._ His cock bobs hard against his stomach, and he reaches out and gives Tyler a few strokes, feels his hips twitch down in response.

He wants Tyler to break first, wants him to start begging, but it doesn’t happen. He just keeps his slow, meticulous pace, arching his back, throwing his head to the ceiling, looking porn-star obscene and _knowing_ it, and he’s clenching around Brandon in a way that’s driving him absolutely crazy. He snaps his hips, fucking up into Tyler and drawing a whimper, but it’s not enough. “Hands and knees,” he finally commands, and Tyler obeys fast, like he’s been waiting for it.

If Tyler wants it hard, that’s what he’s going to get. Seguin groans when Brandon gets into position behind him and fucks back in, a long low wrecked noise, and Brandon doesn’t know if it’s for show but it makes him feel pretty good regardless. “Hard,” Tyler begs, so Brandon obliges, tangling one hand in his hair and yanking to make Seguin’s back arch, the other digging hard into his hip.

Brandon wants to say something suitably dirty, about how good Tyler feels on his dick or how much of a slut he is, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be working except for the occasional curse, so that’s what he goes with. He realizes Tyler has a hand on himself, jerking himself off, and he clenches around Brandon when he comes, which is enough to tip him over the edge too.

Tyler’s not much for sentimentality, apparently, because once they both get off he starts fidgeting, in no mood for cuddles or aftercare. Brandon pulls out and ties off the condom, and Tyler stretches like a cat. “Not bad, Dubinsky,” he says. “Ugh, I’m gross. Can I use your shower real quick?”

Brandon points him to the bathroom and cleans up a little while Seguin’s in the shower, wiping off the excess lube and sweat - it’s no use, he’ll need a shower too - but he’ll do that later, after Tyler’s gone. He throws on an old shirt and some sweats instead. “Sexy look,” Tyler says as he walks out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, and as with everything Brandon can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“Thanks for the hookup,” he says instead.

Tyler chuckles, starting to towel off. “Was I as good as your big rookie?”

Brandon bites back a sigh. “Look, we don’t do that anymore. It was a mistake. Honestly, I’m sort of shocked you didn’t ask PL instead of me.”

“He’s hot,” Tyler concedes. “But nah, I like my men - and women, actually - just a little bit older. Gotta thank you for the juicy gossip though, I ain’t heard anything that good in _years._ You shoulda seen PK’s face when I told him.” He throws the towel on the floor, stepping into his tight jeans.

Brandon sits up slowly, staring at Tyler, the implication of the words starting to hit him. The first team that had called him about the whole outing thing was the Predators, which meant they were one of the first teams to hear about it. And if _Tyler_ was the one who told PK Subban - 

“So uh, you told PK, who told you?” Brandon asks with faux-casualness, and Tyler freezes, seemingly realizing he fucked up.

“Uh, oh, shit I don’t even remember.”

“Try to fuckin’ remember,” Brandon says, and he can hear the dangerous note in his voice. From Tyler’s expression, he hears it too.

“You know how rumors go,” Tyler says, managing to get his jeans up and buttoned. “You hear it from a couple people, all different stuff, you don’t know where you heard it from - “

“The Blackhawks?” Brandon interrupts, narrowing his eyes. “You hear it from someone on the Blackhawks, Seguin?”

Tyler blanches, goes a little white. “Nah.”

Brandon’s vision goes red, anger clouding all rational thought. If Seguin heard this from someone on the Hawks, and he told Subban and God knows who else, that means the rumor mill probably started with him. Maybe Tyler wasn’t the only one talking, maybe Kane was blabbing it to other people in the league, but he realizes now that Tyler Seguin probably played a big part in spreading his secret league-wide. “You fucking asshole,” he snarls, lunging off the bed towards Seguin. Tyler has apparently expected it, because he bolts, his shoulder making a loud thunk as he smacks off the wall and careens towards the living room.

Brandon’s not nearly as fast as a panicked Tyler Seguin. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me!” Tyler yelps, even though Brandon hasn’t necessarily accused him of anything, which solidifies his conviction that Tyler shares a healthy amount of blame for the rumor mill. Seguin manages to snag his coat and shoes - he’s still shirtless, and his ballcap is still laying discarded in the hallway - but now he’s stuck behind the couch, eyes wide and panicked. “Man, whatever you’re thinking of doing…”

“I’m going to fucking _kill you,”_ Brandon snarls, enraged. Tyler feints one way around the couch, and then the next as they’re in a standstill for a moment, staring at each other.

“Don’t be fucking crazy,” Tyler says, panting from adrenaline.

“Too fucking late for that,” Brandon says, and he gets sick of the dodging, jumping over the couch towards Tyler. Seguin’s too fast, though; he bolts around the couch while Brandon’s going over it, manages to get to the door and yank it open as he runs. He leaves the door open, and by the time Brandon gets there, he’s nowhere to be seen.

Brandon’s breathing heavy too, from the sprinting and the rush of fury, and he leans over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, stewing in his anger. Next he takes Seguin’s shirt and cap - probably very expensive, he consoles himself - and throws them away in the trash. After chugging another beer, he’s calmed down enough to pull out his phone and text Luc.

_youll never guess what just happened._


End file.
